


Bury the Bells

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, PTSD, Parade's End - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set after WWI in 1922. John is adrift in a loveless marriage. He takes a holiday to the country and meets a difficult patient. The spark that ignites between them might relight John's life or burn it to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this was started after I rewatched Parade's End recently. Those grand themes of loyalty, love and honor got me going. This is not technically a fusion, as it diverts wildly from Parade, but it does have the skeleton of that story at its foundation. 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated and please point out any mistakes you might find. Thank you!

_Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,_  
 _slow play of lights, solitary bell,_  
 _twilight falling in your eyes, doll,_  
 _earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!_

_In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them_  
 _as you desire, and you send it where you will._  
 _Aim my road on your bow of hope_  
 _and in a frenzy I will free my flock of arrows._

_On all sides I see your waist of fog,_  
 _and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours;_  
 _my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests_  
 _in you with your arms of transparent stone._

_Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and darkens_  
 _in the resonant and dying evening!_  
 _Thus in deep hours I have seen, over the fields,_  
 _the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind._

\- “Ah Vastness of Pines”, by Pablo Neruda

 

He stops himself from reaching over for the other side of the bed.

He knows it will be cold and not slept in. Bleak dawn light washes the walls and John Watson stretches in his sheets. His back cracks painfully and he draws himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He risks a glance over his slumped shoulder and confirms what he already knows. The pillows are undisturbed.

He wipes a hand over his face, scrubs his hair, and blinks blearily around his modest bedroom. After checking his pocket watch on his night stand, he stands and seeks his clothes and a shave, readying for breakfast.

Another beautiful day that he won't enjoy.

 

oOo

Munching on toast, John reads the morning paper. The housemaid, Evelyn, sets a plate of eggs next to his cup of coffee. John keeps his eyes on the news, but speaks to her.

“Did Mary come by this morning?”

Evelyn busies herself at the doorway, distinctly uncomfortable.

“No, sir.”

There's a pause in the air where John waits for Evelyn to finish.

“I didn't see her yesterday either.”

John cracks the paper slightly and folds it into straight, perfect lines. He sets down his toast, suddenly not feeling like eating very much. They were edging into the two day mark when John would have to start making uncomfortable inquiries as to the whereabouts of his wife. It had happened before.

He looks to Evelyn, hanging in the entry and awaiting further instructions. She's young, in her early twenties and just the type of round faced, bright-eyed girl John would have gone for before the War. Now he can barely manage the enthusiasm for his coffee. He notes the anxious twist of her hands and goes back to poking at his breakfast.

“You can go, Evelyn. I'm sure you have more important things to do than talk to me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She gives him a slight smile and he offers her an even weaker one in return.

John pushes back from the table, retrieving his pocket watch to see how much time he has left before work. Before he can stand, the front door slams open hard enough to shake his cup and saucer. There's a great crash in the foyer, likely something valuable falling to the ground.

He frowns and waits for Mary to make it to the dining room.

His wife stumbles on one broken heel to the table, a matted mink shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders, despite the promise of heat in the air. She collapses into the seat next to him and rudely snatches up his coffee without greeting. John's hands curl into fists in his lap.

Mary finishes the drink and puts the cup on the table, outside the saucer. John rankles quietly at the gesture. She notices him and props one hand under her chin.

“Good morning, darling. Or is it afternoon? I wasn't paying attention.”

Mary is blond, blue eyed and quite beautiful when she's sober enough to stand. John thought having a sister fall to the drink was a heartbreak, but going through it again with his wife was ending up being just as bad. He nods in her direction, refusing to meet her eyes.

She picks up his toast and begins eating it.

“Are you going to finish this? It's just that I'm famished. I simply don't remember the last time I ate.”

She lets out a squawk of unbecoming laughter that jerks John's shoulders. He steadies himself for the line of questioning that always ends in them both being upset, but it must be voiced.

“Where were you last night? And the day before?”

Mary's face wrinkles in disgust. The thick make-up she wears digs further into the creases of her eyes with the act.

“Oh, Johnny. Do we really have to do this again? I was having such a nice day.”

He finally looks at her.

Her thin-strapped dress shimmers even in the dim light from their window. It reaches to her knees and spreads out into a knotted fringe that sways wildly when she slumps further in the chair. One heel is missing from her slim shoes and the scuffs look to have made the pair ruined anyway. The Marcel waves are slowly falling from her naturally straight hair, but are pinned valiantly back with a sparkly headband around her forehead. A crooked line of love bites blazes up the side of her neck, not even covered with a layer of powder.

Sadness for them both takes over when he looks at her too long. He runs his tongue across the front of his teeth and sits back in his chair, crosses his arms.

Once upon a time, Mary would have made up elaborate stories to detail her entire night and explain why she hadn't been home in time for dinner. Then she started staying out past midnight. Soon, she stopped coming home at all. John knew this was just a place to store her numerous clothes. He didn't like to contemplate where he fit into Mary's busy social life.

She no longer tries to lie to John.

“Mind your own business. I don't ask about what you do with your day.”

John closes his eyes and sits for a moment, no words forthcoming. He pushes back from the table and scoots his plate of food closer to his wife. He stops in the foyer and reaches over Evelyn to grab his coat while she sweeps up the pieces of a broken vase his mother had given him as a wedding present. Mary had liked it.

He thanks Evelyn quietly and she tries to hide the pity on her face. John grabs his worn leather medicine bag and double checks the clasp. A gold plate near the top is engraved with his name in thin letters. He swipes his thumb over it when lifts his bag and heads for the front door. It shuts quietly behind him, not disturbing anyone at all.

 

oOo

When John arrives at the practitioner’s office, he finds a patient already waiting for him.

“You know, most of the medically unsound wait for the doctor to arrive at their offices first, Captain.”

Captain Greg Lestrade served with distinction in the 11th Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers during The Great War. He's John's former commander and best friend. He pulls himself up to stand, his right leg stiff, but a cheerful smirk on his face. John waves a small salute that the captain returns.

The floorboards creak as they cross the room to John's offices and they both nod to the secretary who was there before either of them to open the building. John closes the paneled door and muffles the sharp pecks of her typewriter.

John walks to the small, clean desk near the rear of the room and sets his bag upon it. Greg looks out one of the long windows, rubbing at his leg discreetly while John's back is turned.

“Where is your cane, Lestrade?”

Greg yanks his hand back guiltily and crosses his arms, muttering under his breath.

“I don't need it.”

John comes back to him with the proper equipment for his physical. He had been administering them since the two of them had returned to England after serving together. There were plenty of other, better doctors, including the doctor John shared the building with. But Greg always came to him.

“Well, if you don't need it, that means there must be some progress. Let's have a look.”

Greg talks about nothing while John goes on with his examination, gently prodding at the captain's knees to test his reactions and watching his face for signs of discomfort. Greg winces when John gets to the right leg. A long white gash, about two centimeters deep, runs the length of Greg's thigh, with smooth scar tissue edging it on all sides. John's shoulder twinges in sympathy.

The captain knew he would never run or walk properly again, but he still scheduled these physicals with John, even six years after he had been honorably discharged from the service. He'd had to sit as the best man at John's wedding. John couldn't believe he had been married that long.

“How's Mary?”

John realizes he paused for too long and breathes on the cold disc of his stethoscope. He waits until Greg's heartbeat fills his ears before he answers.

“She's as radiant as ever.”

Something in his voice must betray him. Greg hums thoughtfully.

“John.”

The doctor pulls away to put up his equipment.

“Your pulse is fine. Are you still going on your morning walks? It's important that you continue to exercise.”

“John, forget about my damn leg. What's happened? Has she not come home again?”

John stands with his back to Greg, carefully returning his tools to his bag. His hand starts a fine tremor and he curls it into a fist.

“She came home this morning.”

Greg buttons his shirt in silence while John tucks his bag underneath his desk on the opposite side.

“How long was she gone?”

John can't stand still and goes to the window, the light washing out any color from his pale, tired features. He crosses his arms and watches the sidewalk.

“Two days. This morning would make it two days.”

Greg hisses through his teeth. John sees the angry set of his shoulder from the corner of his eye.

“Did she offer an excuse at least?”

John's eyes fall closed.

“She doesn't have to anymore.”

Greg comes to stand beside him, watching the street vendors below.

“How long can this keep going on, John? She's killing you. I see it in your face. I know I've said this before but -”

John opens his eyes and moves away from the window.

“No.”

“Divorce her. It's not my business to get in the middle of someone else's marriage, but this is not a marriage anymore. You're my friend and it pains me to see you suffer.”

John shuffles inside his desk drawer and Greg comes to lean heavily on his arms, gripping the front of the desk. He eyes John steadily until the doctor can't avoid his gaze anymore. He drops heavily into his chair, pushing his fingers through his hair.

“I can't leave her. She'll go to the street. She gave up everything to marry me. What type of man would I be to take her home from her?”

“But she's never there, John. She's obviously seeking her … fill elsewhere. Release yourself from the stone around your neck. You're drowning.”

“She's not a -”

He wipes a hand over his face and when he finally looks Greg in the face, his eyes are filled with bone-deep sorrow.

“What happened, Greg? I haven't changed, have I? I'm a good husband. I'm faithful, I give her what she asks of me. It's not enough. Nothing I do is enough.”

Brightness gathers at the corners of his eyes and the two men look away from each other. Greg clears his throat while John pulls himself together.

Greg claps a hand flat on the desk.

“You're going to come with me.”

John startles and blinks.

“What?”

“We're taking a holiday. You're due one, I'm sure. I haven't seen you skive off work in all the time I've known you.”

“But my patients-”

“Come, come, lieutenant. Don't make me pull rank. Pack your bags and we'll leave on the 1300 train.”

Greg sees the hesitation and a sensible, boring argument building in John's mind, so he limps to the door of the office and sticks his head out.

“Excuse me, miss.”

The secretary gasps and ceases typing.

“Yes, sir?”

“How long have you known Dr. Watson?”

She ponders him for a moment, trying to decide if it's a trick question.

“I've known him for four years, as long as I've worked here.”

“Four years. And in all that time, have you ever known Dr. Watson to call in sick?”

“No.”

“Has he ever taken a leave?”

“Not that I can recall, sir.”

“Thank you. You've been terribly helpful.”

He gives her a wolfish grin and closes the door as she blushes.

“She's too young for you by far, Captain.”

Greg waves at the air.

“Yes, yes all right, of course she is, but that doesn't mean I can't have a bit of fun in my golden years.”

“You're thirty-three. Hardly on the edge of the grave yet.”

Greg goes suddenly serious.

“But we were, John. We were both given a second chance and this is why I push you. I hate to see you waste your life wallowing in unhappiness when I know something is better out there for you.”

His eyes drop to John's left shoulder and the doctor turns it protectively away, his face ashen. They stand in deadlock for a moment, neither speaking over the heavy silence between them. John drops and picks up his bag, nodding at Greg.

The captain claps him on the shoulder with a sunny smile as they move together towards the exit.

“Where are we going to go?”

“Don't destroy the air of adventure, Watson! Just pack your bag and let the wind carry you!”

John smiles and Greg leaves him to discuss his workload with the secretary, promising the doctor to lunch on the train.

 

oOo

The train growls and shudders like an old wolfhound, spitting smoke in the heated air. Every window on board is dropped to push air through the hot compartments. John and Greg sit across from each other. The captain reads a crime novel and the doctor watches the scenery.

They were on their way towards Ilminster, Somerset, but beyond that, John wasn't sure. Greg remained tight-lipped about the details of their trip, insisting on surprising him. Green fields and grazing cows swish past as John continues to stare out the window.

He hadn't been to the country since long before the war. He has fond memories of water holes and rope swings, midnight adventures by lantern light. Greg pulls him from his thoughts by shutting the window slightly.

“We're going to visit my cousin. She's got a grand old manor up here that she refuses to give up for London life.”

Greg rolls his eyes like it's a personal affront that she won't move and continues to talk about the many, many fields of land around the house and the nearby village.

John nods and tucks a fist under his chin, half-listening, but going back to the window.

Mary had been dead to the world when he arrived back home to pack. Evelyn had carefully hung up her clothes and tended her as best she could. He sent her home with two weeks wages after explaining his unexpected holiday.

He had watched his wife sleep for a time, face slack and missing the deep meanness that had developed over the past few years. She had almost looked like the loving, laughing woman John had married.

He had brushed some hair out of her eyes, but she rolled away, distant even in sleep. He pulled his hand back and contemplated not leaving a note to his whereabouts – give her a taste of her own medicine. Eventually, he scribbled something hasty and left it near her clutch. He left no forwarding address or number. He wouldn't have given it to her if he had known it.

Sitting on the train now, he reflects on the small seed of spite blooming in him. He regrets leaving the note. He should have let her worry. She wouldn't have done, but it was nice to fool himself.

Greg senses the dark mood clouding above his friend and pulls him into a conversation about automobiles, something he's considering purchasing.

“I'd like to be able to come out here on my own time more often.”

John takes the bait.

“Tell me about this cousin.”

Greg's eyes light with the subject and he lists the many great and varied accomplishments of Lady Molly. John acknowledges where it is expected of him and they pass the rest of the journey in idle conversation.

 

oOo

A young man in a smart black uniform arrives with a car at the station to drive them to east of Ilminster. They ride in silence, as they can't hear each other over the loud rattling of the vehicle. The sun is just beginning to set when they arrive at the front gate for Hooper House.

They pull to a stop and the driver pushes his cap back to speak to them over his shoulder.

“Here we are, gents. Would you like to walk to the front, Captain? I recall how fond you are of the gardens. They're blooming something lovely right now, sir.”

“I think that would be a treat for the doctor, thank you, Will. Let them know we're here, won't you?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

John gets the door open before Will can do it for them. He stands back as John hops out and gives him a small smile. Greg struggles minutely to wrangle his leg out of the door and Will politely studies his shoes. John reaches past his friend back into the carriage of the car and grabs the captain's cane, putting it forcibly into Greg's hand with a stern look.

Greg sighs and rolls his eyes before readjusting his weight for the stick. William bids them goodbye and they stand in front of three massive stone arches, crawling with ivy. The largest arch has a wrought iron gate with a strong 'H' in the curls of the metalwork and it guards the entrance to the pathway.

Greg ambles towards it, a smile already on his face. John continues to admire the ancient arches, wondering how old they must be. Medieval, surely.

“Come on then! We've got quite a walk to make before the sun sets. I want you to see this in daylight.”

The gate squeals slightly on its hinges and they start down a wide dirt path lined with fragrant trees on either side. Greg sets a good pace and they're both slightly damp with sweat by the time they reach a bend in the drive that offers them a view of the house and gardens.

What gardens! John gapes for a moment at the massive patchwork of blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges that sprawl before the manor. The house itself is a stately three stories, pale bricked and half taken over by wide swathes of green and red ivy.

Greg sighs happily.

“There's more in the back, but I thought you might like to see this while we could today. Gorgeous, isn't it?”

John nods, drinking in the wash of gold covering the greenery as the sun slowly tips below the horizon. Greg taps him on the shin with his cane.

“We're almost there. They'll be expecting us.”

They pass fragrant stems of lavender that bunch near the low steps leading to the main drive of the house. Will's car is already parked nearby and the two lanterns next to the door are being lit by an attendant.

As soon as they reach the front door, the attendant notices them and greets them quickly before letting them into the house. John scuffs his shoes to rid them of dust, but Greg has already shot off down the hallway with purpose. The attendant doesn't seem to mind, so John follows quickly, trying to take in the expensive looking furniture and paintings on the wall as he hurries.

The hallway turns wide, running along one side of the house. One wall is nearly all glass from the waist up as grand windows fill up most of the space. It faces the west and dying sunlight casts long shadows in the space. At the end of this hallway, a heavy door sits ajar and John hears quiet murmuring from within.

Greg raps the handle of his cane against he door jamb before letting himself in. The conversation stops and John hears a gasp and the quick clatter of heels on hardwood. He makes it into the room to see Greg enveloped in a massive hug.

The captain lets out a surprised gust of laughter and hugs the lady back, pulling her up on her tiptoes and swinging slightly before setting her down again. They part and John sees a mousy woman in her early thirties, conservatively dressed in a long skirt and a prim hair bun, but a kind face. Her cheeks are flushed and a few strands of hair fell loose in her enthusiastic embrace and John thinks he'll quite like her.

Greg seems to remember there's other people in the room, looking around himself. It causes John to do so as well, noticing the other two occupants besides himself, Greg and who he is assuming is Lady Molly.

There is an older woman, early seventies, with her hands clasped before her apron. She's shorter than John and smiles so affectionately at the pair before her that he thinks she must have known them a long time. She looks like the type of warm-hearted lady to sneak you sweets and John think he'll like her too.

The other occupant is a man in a very smart suit, the tallest person in the room. He stands a bit further back than the older woman and folds his hands behind his back. His reddish hair is slicked back severely and he seems to be surveying each person with a bored once over. He meets John's eyes and the doctor quickly looks to Molly who is making flustered introductions.

“Goodness, forgive me, how rude! This is Mrs. Hudson, my housekeeper.”

Mrs. Hudson bows her head slightly at John and smiles at Greg.

“And this is the owner of the house next door, Lord Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft glides forward and gives John a handshake with a cool palm. From across the room, he appeared bored, if polite, but before he lets John's hand slip away, he scrutinizes him with a sudden flash of interest that makes John uncomfortable. The man reaches for Greg's hand and they smile slightly at each other, already acquainted.

Greg puts a hand on John's shoulder.

“This is my friend, Dr. John Watson, former Lieutenant of The Royal Fusilliers and a damn fine physician. The only person not introduced is Lady Molly Hooper, my cousin and owner of this house.”

Molly ducks her head and gives John a gentle handshake before stepping back beside Greg.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt your gathering, Mols. I didn't realize you had company.”

Mycroft Holmes speaks as the group moves back towards the comfortable circle of chairs and couches in the center of the high-ceiling room. Electric lights hum faintly from the walls.

“It's no trouble, Captain. Our meeting was drawing to a close soon.”

John sits next to Greg on a couch, while the other three take individual chairs. A low table is spread with a tea set and finger food, which Mrs. Hudson immediately pushes towards the newcomers while she pours them tea. Greg thanks her and looks to Mycroft.

“Surely you could stay a minute more, Mycroft? It's been ages since I saw you. What brings you to Molly's?”

Greg speaks with affection and John wonders how long they've known each other to have any warmth between them. The man's expression looks like he's constantly smelling something vaguely unpleasant and is trying not to mention it. He gives Greg a strained smile.

“I was checking with Mrs. Hudson on the welfare of my brother.”

“Oh! Sherlock? Is he in the country then?”

“Yes, I'm afraid he's on a bit of a … forced holiday for now.”

Greg chuckles and gently elbows John.

“This one, too. It's been even longer since I've seen Sherlock. He was always getting himself into trouble.”

Mycroft takes a swallow of tea and nods with a sour expression.

“He rather does still.”

“Oh, but he's a lovely boy. Please don't get the wrong impression, doctor!”

Mrs. Hudson looks to him earnestly and Mycroft clears his throat.

“He is lovely to you alone, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid she's the only one he'll see with any regularity.”

John notices his hand is trembling again and will soon make a clatter on his saucer. He sets the cup down.

“Is he sick?”

The room goes quiet, until Molly chirps up.

“Not anymore! I hear he's recovering quite nicely, isn't he, Mycroft?”

Mrs. Hudson agrees enthusiastically and Mycroft gives a small nod, but frowns.

“He is better than he was when I first brought him here, but he refuses to be civil enough for me to get a doctor to him.”

Mrs. Hudson clicks her tongue and frets, speaking over Mycroft.

“Poor lamb, he burned his hands in one of his science things. Taking a long time to heal.”

“It is his own fault, Mrs. Hudson. They won't heal because he won't get them properly treated and no doctor stays long enough to take care of it.”

John frowns at the thought of a patient left untreated. These country doctors must be soft. John had gone through a war helping panicked patients so wild they would strike him rather than let him treat them. Surely one man with burned hands wouldn't be such a problem.

“Is he really that awful?”

Greg shifts beside him and John backtracks. He curses his tendency to be too direct. He seems to have left behind his tact in France.

“I mean, I know when you're in pain, you can be difficult to be around, but how many doctors has he been through?”

Mycroft focuses on him.

“Three.”

Three! The incompetence astounds John and intrigues him. What could possibly be said that would drive away three qualified, stalwart professionals? Mycroft continues.

“My brother has the habit of … speaking his mind. Quite directly. It makes others uncomfortable. Occasionally.”

Molly lets out a quiet laugh that she quickly stifles. She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear and fortifies herself with a sip of tea.

“He's really very smart, though. The cleverest man I've ever met.”

Mrs. Hudson coos and agrees. Mycroft rolls his eyes so slightly John nearly misses it.

“Yes, clever is a word for it. Insufferable might be another.”

Greg laughs.

“Yeah, that's more like the Sherlock I remember.”

John stays quiet for a moment. He can feel Mycroft watching him without looking up.

“I could give it a go.”

All eyes turn to him and he looks up to see Mycroft first.

“That is, if you wouldn't mind. I feel like I'm fairly qualified to handle unruly patients.”

He gives Greg a small grin, but the captain protests.

“Now wait, John. You're here on holiday!”

“I'm not on holiday from being a doctor. It can't hurt anything. In fact, it might help someone.”

Greg sighs and John looks to Mycroft again, he wears a faint smile that looks closer to genuine.

“I would be delighted to have you take a look, Dr. Watson. I'll send a car for you in the morning.”

“How far away is your house?”

“Four acres to the east.”

“I'll just walk then, if you don't mind? I am on holiday.”

John smiles, which Mycroft barely returns. If this is politeness in the Holmes family, John thinks he'll be in for a hell of a ride tomorrow morning.

Mycroft begins to stand and they all join him, walking him towards the door. He turns to Molly and kisses her hand.

“Thank you for a nice evening, Lady Hooper. You as well, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson loops her arm through his.

“Oh stop. I'll walk you to the door, dear.”

He shakes hands with Greg first, then gives John a longer pause. The doctor does not fidget under his scrutiny, but stares right back.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, doctor. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

The group watches the pair walk slowly down the hallway. Mycroft listens and nods while Mrs. Hudson continues chattering. Greg nudges John and mutters under his breath.

“I hope you know what you just got yourself into, mate.”

John shrugs and the three go back into the parlor to finish their tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly's house is based on [Hestercombe House](https://www.google.com/search?q=hestercombe+house&espv=2&biw=1440&bih=805&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=_UmiVPu4IMjgggSq44KoCg&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAw) near Taunton in Somerset. Please do have a look at their gardens, as they are stunning. I took a few elements from other houses in the area, but that's the main one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference: John is 28. Sherlock is 24.
> 
> Disclaimer: It was brought to my attention that there's such a thing as Mary bashing - totally not my intention! It will be a few chapters more before Mary is brought back in, but I like her in the stories, as much as she's there. She's being suited for the purposes of my story here though.
> 
> P.S - I have a soft spot for canon Holmes & his disguises, which I wish Moff & co would utilize more in Series 3! I've gone out on a bit of limb here, but I hope people enjoy it.

Mrs. Hudson knocks on John's door around seven with fresh towels and the promise of breakfast when he's done with his bath. He thanks her and moves through his morning routine, prying open the windows of his second story room to let in the sound of birds and a beautiful day.

He absently rubs his freshly shaven chin while looking out across the garden still wet with dew. The smell of dozens of different types of flowers wafts in and he breathes deeply, not thinking about any problems back home or for the day ahead.

He'd have to thank Greg later. This holiday was already making him feel better and he grabbed his medical kit before setting off downstairs to find the kitchens. Mrs. Hudson plies him with oatmeal and an apple and he asks her for directions while he eats.

The little lady bustles around the kitchen with another house maid, the two of them chattering and swapping dishes and rags while she talks to John.

“It's easy enough, dear. There's a footpath through most of your walk that can take you very close to Holmes House. Used to be for the shepherds when we had flocks through here. Molly doesn't really keep with agriculture, but she does like the gardens. We have a man who tends to those mostly, but no sheep lately.”

John lets the rest of her good natured stories ramble on, listening and absorbing just the sound of another person's voice who was happy. He felt like a flower soaking up the sun, absorbing her happiness and making it his own. He finds himself smiling and in remarkably good spirits by the time he finishes his meal. He stands and lifts a copper kettle from Mrs. Hudson's hands to put it on the shelf for her.

She beams at him and pats him on the arm. He smiles back.

“Thank you! Oh, look at you, you're already getting a bit of color in your cheeks. This holiday will do you good, dear, I must say that it will. Now, do you think you'll be back by this afternoon?”

He chuckles.

“I don't see why not. It's barely eight, all I'm going to do is check on his hands, see what type of bandages he might need, or medicine. It shouldn't take too long.”

Mrs. Hudson looks at him doubtfully from the side as she turns back to breakfast for the rest of the house on the stove.

“I don't want to worry you, doctor, but our Sherlock is terribly clever and sometimes he speaks without thinking. He says things that might be considered insensitive, but I know he'll like you.”

“Please, call me John. I'm sure it will be all right. I've dealt with some very obstinate patients in the past and I can assure you, one difficult man is not going to be a problem. Thank you the warning though.”

“It's no trouble at all, dear. I'll be over there later to fix some lunch with the cook and check on Sherlock.”

She pats him on the forearm and leaves a floury hand print behind. With a cry of dismay, she wipes at it with her apron, apologizing. John reassures her and takes his leave out the side door of the kitchen, through to the magnificent gardens.

oOo

John finds the path easily enough.

It starts at the edge of a long row of roses and winds its way around the side of the garden, unobtrusive. He's still afforded a good view of the greenery before the path turns to fields upon fields and small copses of tall trees.

The sun rises fully and dissipates the stillness of dawn. The air rushes clean in his lungs and he pauses to watch a pair of rabbits dash past his feet into the under brush. John imagines he could be an entirely different person out here. He could maybe establish a small practice, acquaint himself in the village and settle into the tranquil pace that was entirely different from London.

But Mary would never allow it. To be so far from her parties and friends would rob both of them whatever scrap of happiness they had left. John recognizes the hollow gloom settling in his stomach and he puts thoughts of his wife aside for later. He pulls himself into the present to prepare for his newest patient.

Certainly no one had painted a kind portrait of Sherlock Holmes. Even with Mrs. Hudson's obvious affection, she had still warned him to be careful in meeting him. How terrible could he really be?

While John contemplates and sets a slow pace, he becomes aware of being watched. It continues as he walks and the path turns and sidles next to a small, neat orchard. He doesn't look to it, but keeps his eyes ahead. After bearing the weight of the invisible gaze for a few moments more, he stops and turns on his heel.

“I'll thank you to stop following me and show yourself.”

  
There's a heavy silence, then a tall man with curly dark hair emerges silently from the orchard. He twists a flat cap between fingers covered in heavy leather work gloves. Dark blue braces stretch over the shoulders of his muddy shirt. His high cheekbones are smudged with dirt and his pale eyes are sheepish when he speaks to John.

“Begging yer pardon, sir. I didn't mean no harm by it. I was working and you walked by and my curiosity clouded my better judgement.”

His rough, broad accent along with such a tall man looking so meek charms John into an easy forgiveness. He eyes him for a moment more and begins to walk away.

“No harm done really. Just don't like being followed.”

He hears the man following him, so he continues to speak.

“Do you work at the Holmes House?”

“That I do, sir. Is that where yer heading?

“That's just where I'm heading, Mr...?”

“Jones, sir.”

“Well, Jones. I'm Dr. John Watson and I've got a patient waiting at the Holmes House.”

“Ah, that'll be the young master, then.”

“Sherlock, right?”

“Yessir, that's him. He's a queer one, alright, begging yer pardon for saying so. But you won't just hear that from me, sir. Ask anyone and they'll tell yeh the same straight away.”

Jones speaks with the odd mix of defiance and deference of the working class but something about the way he talks is off. John gives him a sidelong look and a small smile.

“So I've been told, Mr. Jones. What makes him so unpleasant, if you don't mind my asking?”

The other man dons his cap and comes to walk beside John, a slouching, heavy lean to his step. He scratches the back of his neck absently while he chooses his words.

“I don't mind yeh asking. A man likes to know what he's getting into before he meets trouble. Trouble he'll be too, sir. Locks himself up in his room for days and days, making wild noises and the smell! Then he comes down like a gale on anyone who crosses his path after. He's a right monster, sir – a freak – his words'll cut you deeper than any knife, I'll swear by that. I'm not sure why milord doesn't lock him up for good.”

John frowns, disturbed by the frank description. It really was unfair of him to form such an opinion before he even met the man, but he can't help the way this information colors his mental picture of Sherlock. He needed to change the subject before he got even more persuaded to dislike a man he'd never met.

“I'll be on my guard then, thank you. What is it that you do at the Holmes House, Mr. Jones?”

“Oh, I'm a gardener. Tend the landscape like.”  
  
He smiles and wiggles his gloved fingers at John. The material is so caked in dirt that he can't identify their color. Mr. Jones continues.

“I reckon they're not as lovely as the gardens at Hooper House, but we try sir. We do at that. Here, you can see for yerself.”

The path crests over a hill and ends. Holmes House stands a few meters away. They approach the house from the side and the left, so their view is of the rear gardens. Indeed, theses gardens aren't as impressive to John, but there are many more groves of trees, offering dappled shade. Benches lie scattered throughout in nooks and bends, perfect places for reading an afternoon away.

In the front of the gardens nearer to the house, a two stream fountain gently spurts in opposite arcs over a wide shallow pool. The house itself is lovely, covered in ivy like Hooper House, two stories, dark brick with several chimneys poking through its slanted roof. Despite the bright flowers and country charm, the house looks cold, even on such a hot summer morning. John can't pinpoint why he feels so, but he turns to Jones, who is watching him closely.

“It's beautiful.”

“Oh, you get used to it, sir. But it is a nice old home, I guess.”

Jones sweeps his gaze across the exterior and grunts.

“I could take you inside, if you like, doctor. Master Mycroft should be able to show you his brother.”

John frowns, wondering at the appropriateness of a gardener showing him into the house. Perhaps they were short-staffed. As they walk through the back of the garden towards the rear entrance, Jones names off rows of flowers that John has never heard of. He points to a distant greenhouse that John can see is filled to the roof with more greenery. He hovers his fingers curiously over a bright yellow flower that surely shouldn't be growing in England.

“Why the strange flowers?”

“I told you the young master is odd, did I not, sir? These are his, special ordered in. He had to hire a gardener from the Caribbean to take care of all this rot.”

“You know an awful lot about them to think they're rot.”

Jones pauses for half a second with his mouth open, but quickly recovers.

“They're just curiosities, sir. They don't serve a purpose that I can find.”

They skirt the fountain and reach a tall French door. He carefully scrapes his boots on the metal bar next to the door and frowns when Jones does not do the same. The tall man simply walks into the house, not even bothering to take off his hat.

He follows the gardener through a long hallway filled with items possibly even more expensive than what lined the Hooper halls. This house is stuffier, as though it only just lost the smell of being closed up after a good airing out. They pass door after locked door and finally reach a study that must be closer to the entrance of the house.

Jones knocks three times and slouches against the door jamb. He lazily thrusts a thumb in the direction of the room and smirks at John.

“Master Mycroft.”

John gives Jones an odd look, but enters to find, unsurprisingly, Lord Holmes sitting behind a broad oak desk. He affords John the smallest measure of a smile and comes around the front of the desk to shake his hand.

“Dr. Watson, thank you again for coming. I rather expect you'd like to meet Sherlock. If he'd like to stop skulking in the door and come in, I could introduce you properly.”

John looks curiously over his shoulder, surprised that the younger Holmes could follow so closely behind him without him noticing. Instead of a younger Mycroft, as John expects, Jones slouches into the room. Mycroft looses a small sigh and John turns back to him to catch his eye roll.

“Such dramatics, Sherlock. Take off the costume or I'll not introduce you.”

Jones widens his eyes then narrows them in a sharp glare. He huffs and shoves the hat in his back pocket, plucking at the fingers of the gloves one by one to slide them off.

“They're not _costumes_ , Mycroft. They're disguises and they've been terribly useful to me in the past, as you well know.”

  
John fears he may be gaping at the transformation before him. Gone are the sloped shoulders and thick accent of Jones, replaced by a posh baritone and commanding posture. Sherlock finally pulls the gloves off and John sees one hand wrapped in hasty bandages, clearly untended recently. The transformation ends after Sherlock removes a handkerchief and rubs away some of the dirt on his face. John lets his astonishment melt into embarrassed anger at the way he's been treated and turns back to Mycroft.

“If the _theatrics_ have ceased, let me introduce you, doctor. This is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Dr. John Watson.”

Sherlock snaps at his brother.

“We've already met.”

“Dr. Watson met whatever no doubt colorful character you made up for today, not you.”

“I don't understand why you're chastising me. You locked me up here – how do you expect me to entertain myself?”

“I've been told you're terribly clever. I'd imagine you would have come up with something better than lying to our guest.”

“I've been told you're terribly fat, but I have empirical evidence of that before me.”

John expects Sherlock to stick out his tongue, but instead he whirls and exits the study. Mycroft's expression is of a suffering martyr for a brief second before he turns to John.

“Dr. Watson, as you can see, quite the challenge is laid before you. I'll apologize for him, since he wouldn't dream of doing so. Sherlock has an actor's streak in him, from some distant branch of our family, that he likes to indulge.”

“You've already all warned me that he was difficult. I guess I should have expected something of the sort. I will admit, I was impressed, certainly.”

Mycroft stares at him for a blank moment.

“Impressed, doctor?”

John nods, staring absently at the empty doorway.

“Yes, I mean – did you see him transform? It was like he was entirely different person. Not just shedding the clothes, his body language was changed as well. It was remarkable.”

Mycroft says nothing, but John catches the renewed spark of focus and interest in his stare. He thinks back on what he just said and finds nothing unusual, his brow furrowing in confusion. Mycroft walks to the door and John follows.

“I'll show you to his quarters. They're in the attic, so I'm afraid it's quite hot during this time. It's the only place I would allow him to keep his chemistry equipment. The smell indisposes the staff.”

They reach a narrow flight of steps that go nearly straight up. Mycroft opens his palm and gestures to the door at the top.

“You'll forgive me for not joining you. Please let me know if I can do anything else for you.”

John watches him go and hefts his bag, looking up the stairs with trepidation. Sherlock Holmes had proved himself to be fairly intimidating so far, but then, he had been warned. He puts those thoughts away and clears his mind to think about the medical task at hand.

 

oOo

He knocks on the door to no answer. Little warning bells sound in John's mind when he discovers Sherlock's door is unlocked. He hovers for a moment on the edge of indecision before opening the door and closing it behind him.

The room is crowded from a slanted ceiling, but also from the furniture crammed inside. A writing desk is to the side of an oval window. It overflows with papers which drifted to the surrounding floor. A grinning skull holds a sheaf of papers in place and a creased poster of a Harry Houdini show from 1904 at the London Hippodrome is stuck to the wall.

Most of the light in the room comes from electric lamps in every corner, plus a naked bulb in the ceiling. There's a music stand with a violin case near the desk and a bed completely covered in books. Between the bed and the stand is an overstuffed leather chair which is turned askew, facing the window.

  
The centerpiece of the room is the long table that holds Sherlock's chemistry set. It takes up the entire right side of the area and dozens of glass beakers and pipes froth and bubble with alarming vigor. Sherlock stands behind this spread, fiddling a stirring stick between his fingers and ignoring John.

The doctor clears his throat and takes a step further into the room. He sets his kit next to the door and waits for Sherlock to say anything. When he doesn't, John walks towards the closest end of the table and studies a few vials. As soon as he touches one, Sherlock barks.

“Don't touch anything.”

John puts the vial back down and leans down to look closer at the multicolored liquids and dissolving solids.

“What are you working on?”

Sherlock scoffs and picks up a pipette, swirling the liquid slowly.

“Your cumbersome indirect approach is not going to work, _doctor._ I don't need you. Leave.”

John straightens.

“I'm not going anywhere. Your brother enlisted me to assess your health and I won't leave until the job is done.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John with a malicious smile.

“Yes, 'enlisted' is an interesting choice of words. What are you doing all the way out here in Ilminster?”

John opens his mouth to answer, but Sherlock barrels right over him.

“A holiday. Look at you. You don't remember the last time you got a decent night's sleep. My, a doctor who doesn't take care of his own health, how interesting.”

He comes from behind the lab table and slowly walks towards John, his gaze sharp as needles while he picks John apart.

“You're well off enough to have your suit tailored, but that was a long time ago, your hem is dropping on the left trouser leg. You're not underfed, so you can provide for yourself with your practice – no, not your practice. You would be richer with your own practice.”

He stops in front of the doctor who remains silent.

“So, money troubles. Not enough to make you desperate, or you would have sold the gold plate off your bag. Not a poor practice, as the creases in the leather of your kit are more recent and suggest fairly frequent patients. Ah, but you shy from me.”

John didn't even realize he was turning his left shoulder, slowly twisting his body away from Sherlock's approach.

“I'm not forgetting the soldier element. What young man now is not one? You served, but you weren't medical. Unusual, as you started your medical training before the war. Front lines then, where you were gifted with a German bullet through the left shoulder.”

Sherlock stands directly in front of John, crowding his personal space. John feels lost, trying to regain his mental footing, but Sherlock's eyes keep him locked to the spot. His words are like a hand slowly squeezing around his throat and his head swims, unable to look away from his tormentor.

No one talks about his shoulder, or the War. Greg is the only one who comes close, but it's different with Greg – he was there. Not even Mary has seen the bullet scar and to have someone – a stranger! – so frankly discussing his service was hurting John in ways he didn't understand. Panic stirs his breath.

“You turn from me. Why? Are you ashamed of your valiant wound? It makes your hand shake, which means you can't be a surgeon or hold a steady practice by yourself. Your over demanding wife thinks you're incompetent as a man because you can't afford to give into her every whim. Thus, your unhappiness, your holiday and your need for distraction and challenge with me.”

Sherlock leans forward to hiss in John's face.

“Poor little broken solider boy! Come to fix me because you can't fix yourself? Better you had perished in the trenches than come home to a wife that doesn't love you any more. Am I wrong?”

He knows damn well that he isn't.

Sherlock's words sting like a hard slap to the face and John can't catch his breath. He reels back from the other man, holding up a hand and shaking his head. Tears surge up from nowhere and his vision clouds. He knows he's speaking, but he's not sure what he's saying, the words catching in his throat. His back presses against a wall and he slides to the floor, holding a clammy hand to his forehead. He slumps his head forward onto his bent knees, breathing hard through his teeth.

He's not sure how long he sits there, but when he lifts his head, Sherlock has turned the chair to face him, sitting in a similar position to John. He has a notebook perched atop his knees and a pencil sticking out from behind his ear. He watches John unblinkingly.

John rasps when he tries to speak and puts his head back on his knees. It had been months since he had an attack. He thought they were gone for good, that he was getting better. Bitterness rises in his throat at the thought that he's just been fooling himself. Mary wouldn't be happy – these fits were one of the reasons she had started avoiding their bed.

His hand bumps into something next to him and he looks to the side. A glass of water sits next to him and he looks up to Sherlock in surprise. The other man is scratching in his notebook, not paying him any attention, so John gratefully takes a sip. As soon as he sets it down, Sherlock speaks.

“You've still got shell-shock. I don't understand – the war ended four years ago.”

He begins scribbling again and John questions him in a shaky voice.

“What are you writing?”

“I've never seen a fit up close. It was interesting to provoke. The flashbacks come up as alibis for murder suspects with an alarming frequency. An opportunity to study an attack could not be passed up.”

John blinks and waits for an apology, a rationalization of what was just done to him, but nothing comes. He reaches for the water again and Sherlock stands. He drops the notebook and pencil on the desk before returning to his careful study at the table.

John wonders if he's being further tested upon. Sherlock said some of the cruellest things anyone had ever said to him in his entire life. But then he placed a glass of water on the floor, a small kindness incongruous with the rest of him. John takes a considering sip and watches the man work, pushing something that looks like flesh around a small dish. He comes to a decision.

“I meant what I said, Mr. Holmes. I'm not leaving.”

Sherlock stops what he's doing for a moment and John holds his breath. When the other man goes back to his work, John smiles.

Sherlock's ignoring him, but he doesn't tell him to leave.

 

oOo

John sits on the floor for an hour, until his back starts to ache, then he moves to Sherlock's chair. He expects an outburst, but none come, so he settles into it to continue watching him work.

Mycroft was right – the smell is awful. Sherlock pours something on the meat in the dish and it sizzles grotesquely, which seems to please the tall man. Eventually, John's nose adjusts to the different smells and he finds himself relaxing in the chair and actually enjoying himself.

  
The two don't say another word to each other and time skips to half-past noon. John's stomach growls, but he ignores it as Sherlock has finally added all the chemicals from the pipettes together in one beaker to make a spectacular shade of magenta. He places one more drop of liquid in the mixture and it bubbles and changes hues again. The doctor smiles to himself; all that's missing is the top hat and cape and Sherlock would fit the magician bill.

From his silent watching, John knows that Sherlock is favoring his uninjured hand considerably. He reaches for something with the bandaged hand and stops himself to stretch for whatever he needs with the other. If only he would let John take a look...

There's a thin 'halloo!' through the door from downstairs. Both men look to the door, then Sherlock looks to John for a brief second before turning back to his work. John pulls himself out of the chair and heads to the door.

Mrs. Hudson stands at the bottom of the staircase, smiling.

“Hello, doctor! How are you getting on? I'd come up to see you, but my it's hip, you see.”

“Oh, we're getting along famously, Mrs. Hudson.”

John thinks she might fall apart with how happy she looks. She claps her hands together.

“I just _knew_ that you would, what did I tell you? I've just finished fixing lunch, won't you boys come have some?”

The doctor turns to Sherlock who is deeply engrossed again. He replies to Mrs. Hudson.

“I'll come down for some. Mr. Holmes is quite busy.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson tuts and frets, but John makes it down the stairs and she loops her arm through his easily. She pats him on the wrist fondly and they start to walk, Mrs. Hudson happily telling him about what she prepared for today.

John gets a hunch and looks over his shoulder just in time to see a head of dark hair jerking back from the door. He smiles and returns his attention to the sweet lady on his arm.

 

oOo

The doctor prepares an extra plate of food after he has his fill and thanks Mrs. Hudson. He walks back from the kitchens to the bottom of Sherlock's stairs, pausing to reconsider his plan. He shrugs and makes the climb, knocking gently on the door before letting himself in.

Sherlock is deep in thought, standing by the window. The braces are dropped off his shoulders and hang about his waist, the dirty shirt still tucked in. John places the food on a stack of books near the end of the bed. Sherlock stays at the window and John clears his throat.

“I brought you some lunch. Mrs. Hudson is quite the cook.”

Sherlock continues his silence and John rocks on his heels before retuning to the door. He picks up his bag and studies the back of Sherlock's head.

“I'll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Holmes. Hopefully we can make some progress then.”

The other man flicks a few fingers at him dismissively and John leaves with a smile on his face.  
  
Sherlock had not forbidden him from coming again.

John would take it as a good sign. The little victories added together could win the war.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes House is based on [ the Strode House at Barrington Court](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/cf/Strode_House,_Barrington_Court_from_the_Garden_-_geograph.org.uk_-_211732.jpg) near where the story is set, Ilminster. Quite a lovely house!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterms are done! Back to the important stuff - writing fic :)

“You made it through in one piece, then?”

Greg tips his glass to John. They sit across from one another at Molly's cozy dinner table. The lady herself sits on Greg's side, nibbling her dinner. John snorts.

“We've weathered worse than Sherlock Holmes.”

“I dare say we did. But he did try to rattle you, didn't he?”

John had walked back to Hooper House in good spirits earlier in the afternoon, despite the rocky morning. He met Greg in the house's impressive library and wiled away the time until dinner reading and chatting with his friend over glasses of whiskey. He was more relaxed than he remembered being in months.

“He did.”

  
John doesn't specify if Sherlock tried or if he succeeded. He smiles politely at his dinner mates. Greg hums thoughtfully and runs a thumb around the lip of his glass, while Molly wipes her mouth to speak.

“You did, um, stay quite a bit longer than I had imagined you would, doctor.”

“John, please. It wasn't an unpleasant day. I quite enjoyed myself really. He didn't say three words to me after his initial outburst, but his chemistry kept me interested. I'm not terribly keen on chemistry myself, but he was brilliant. Is he a scientist?”

John turns to Molly for his query. She hastily slips some food in her mouth and chews to think her answer over. When she finishes, she looks to Greg first and starts slowly.

“He's not a scientist, really... What I mean to say – he is!”

Greg laughs and interrupts.

“Is he or isn't he?”

Molly flushes and tosses Greg a tiny glare. She turns back to John to clarify.

“He is, but it's not all that he does. He's a detective. He helps the police.”

“He's with the police?”

“Oh no, he's not with the police. He just helps them.”

“So an amateur detective?”

Molly giggles into her napkin.

“Oh no, please don't let him hear you call him that. He's more of a consultant sometimes. Other times, he does his own work.”

“A private investigator?”

John imagines Sherlock would look right at home with a dramatic pose on the cover of a detective dime novel. He covers his smile while Molly continues, slightly flustered.

“I'm sure I'm not explaining this right, but he's not a private investigator. He's between a detective, a consultant, and that. Oh, you should just ask him about it. He likes to talk about his work, so says Mrs. Hudson. If you can get him to speak. Lord Mycroft invited me to dinner a few weeks ago and Sherlock left the moment I saw him.”  
  
Greg frowns at the hurt in her tone. He subtly scoots his chair closer to Molly, who is lost in thought, and speaks to John. 

“We were all three quite close as children. I used to spend the summers here and Sherlock was the only other kid around for acres. Molly and I would go to the Holmes House and drag him away from his books after Mrs. Hudson told us there was another boy around.”

Molly pulls out of her mood and laughs lightly.

“Yes, we wanted to play battles, but neither one of us wanted to be Napoleon. Mrs. Hudson mentioned that our neighbors were French blooded and we marched all the way over there to ask him to play. We had to employ her to get him to talk to us.”

“Mols and I tried to convince him that Napoleon didn't lose _all_ the time, but he told us we were idiots and that he would only play if we were doing Oriental history.”  
  
“We didn't know anything about the Orient, so he agreed to teach us. He has always liked an audience. Then we did those battles instead.”

Greg rolls his eyes.  
  
“When she says he taught us, it was more likened to beating us over the head with dates. And to be fair, most of our battles looked the same. Lots of waving sticks and yelling.”

“Except for Sherlock. He told us the real generals never yelled. They did strategies and maps, which I think just gave him an excuse to keep reading while we waged war.”

Greg smiles at Molly fondly.

“But we did have fun. It wouldn't have been the same without him there, giving orders when he could be bothered.”

The moment stretches between Greg and Molly, both happy. John watches them sadly for a time, unwanted resentment for fresh love spreading thick and bitter across his tongue. He coughs politely to bring them back to the present. They both look away, while John directs the conversation again.

“What happened for you not to keep in touch?”

Molly sighs and sips her wine.

“Sherlock went to boarding school after one summer and when he came back, he suddenly refused to see us again. Where before he had just seemed reluctant to play, now he was ...”

“He grew mean-spirited. I'm sure I don't want to know what happened to him at school, but we both know the cruelty of young boys. I can't imagine it was pleasant for him there, with his oddities.”

“He stopped showing up at the Holmes House at all and Lord Mycroft said he had started taking his summers in France.”

Greg nods in agreement and looks to Molly thoughtfully.

“You know, I'm not sure that was absolutely true. Mycroft might have been just saying that to get us to leave. We were getting too old for games anyway.”

“Oh and poor Sherlock, now he's here because --”

Molly stops herself abruptly and widens her eyes at her dinner mates. She fusses with her silverware.

“I'm sure I was about to say something out of turn. You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen. It's quite late.”

It was and they all agree to turn in for the night. John lies awake for many hours after, filled with curiosity. He dreams of a great army of children, led by a dark haired boy on a white horse.

oOo

John meets no strange characters on his return to Holmes House the next morning and knocks on the front door. This entrance is no less beautiful than the back, with finely trimmed lawns and a few croquet posts left behind in the yard. He can't imagine who would be playing croquet in this particular house. Mycroft is so stiff he could substitute for one of the posts.

He raises a knuckle to the heavy oak door before it swings open under his fist.

A young lady stands in the entrance, but John peers at her for a second to make sure of her gender. She is dressed in a formal black suit, with a trim waistcoat and sensible shoes, surely made for a man, but tailored to her form. Not a hair strays from the bun atop her head, the only feminine touch to her attire. She doesn't so much as glance at John before beckoning him inside, scribbling quick lines in a small notebook.

“Good morning. I'm here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good morning, doctor. You're expected.”

She gestures John inside and he glances quickly at her notebook, astonished to see it filled with an elaborate code of letters and figures and what appears to be an Arabic script. The woman writes it as easily as the English alphabet and John looks no further when she leads him down the hallway.

John expects to maybe see Mycroft before he gets to the attic, but he is led through a series of hallways to a familiar staircase. Remarkably, the woman has not looked up once from her writing and he marvels at her sense of direction.

“If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask.”

She turns to leave him and John feels summarily dismissed.

He looks up the staircase and hefts his bag, treading up to the landing. He knocks politely on the door, but it swings on its hinges, opening to reveal Sherlock Holmes hanging from his third story window by his ankles.

John drops his bag and rushes towards him without a sound, gripping his calves and pulling backwards so forcibly that Sherlock lands sitting backwards on John's chest. The doctor gets an eyeful of the long line of Sherlock's back for only a moment before the other man shoves away. He glares at John imperiously. 

“What on earth are you doing?”

John sputters for a moment and spits back.

“What am _I_ doing!? What were _you_ doing!?”

Sherlock sniffs and stands, beginning to straighten his clothes. Trim plum waistcoat with brass buttons today and starched linen trousers. John tries not to notice how well the colors compliment his pale skin.

“ _I_ was doing a very important experiment that now has been ruined.”

“What could you possibly be experimenting on hanging upside down out of window?”

John stands himself, rolling his shoulder and brushing off his jacket. Sherlock perches in his chair with his feet underneath him, some peculiar bird come to roost.

“If you must know, I wanted to see if it impeded my judgment.”

He points to a stack of notebooks on the bed. One is flipped open to hasty calculations and long chemical formulas that make John's eyes go hazy even looking at them. Sherlock continues with a flip of his fingers.

“I was testing if increased blood flow to the brain improved mental facilities by any significant amount. Or lowered them.”

John rubs his forefinger over his bottom lip.

“How long have you been hanging out the window, Mr. Holmes?”

“Before I was interrupted? Fourteen minutes.”

John releases a loud breath and shoves some of the books on the bed out of the way, taking a seat. 

“That is _very_ detrimental to your health.”  
  
“Health is not of any great concern. Mental functions are.”

“Yes, but you won't have any _functions_ if you don't take care of your health.”

“I take care of it enough.”  
  
John eyes the red tinged bandage on Sherlock's hand.

“I have trouble believing that.”

Sherlock stands and paces away from him. John looks to the open window.

“And you were doing this because...?”

“Bored.”

"Oh yes, of course you were bored. Why the window? Why not just flip upside down in your chair?”

“Better view outside.”

John throws up his hands, exasperated. No sense in arguing with someone who was _clearly insane_. He shifts to Sherlock's chair as the madman goes back to his impromptu lab. They both remain silent until a passing comment surfaces from John.  
  
“You know, your evidence would have been ruined anyway. You can't be the subject and the experimenter. You need to be outside of the work to judge it properly.”

He doesn't expect an answer, but Sherlock's silence turns contemplative and he stops tinkering with his equipment. John looks to him and is unnerved by the mad glint in his stare.

“I don't have any one else to test the results on, doctor.”

John holds up his hands.

“Oh no. Sorry. Not happening.”

Sherlock taps a thermometer against his tightly closed mouth, lost in thought. John doesn't want to know what type of germs are being transferred. He tucks the thermometer behind his ear and approaches John.

“We could reduce the hanging time, as you have a reduced mental capacity to begin with.”

“Now, I say! Wait a minute --”

“I mean, three minutes should be plenty of time for you. You could write out basic maths, which I'm sure you're capable of doing. Or bones. You're more familiar with bones. I could ask you for increasingly difficult names as we increase the time.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“It's Sherlock. If you like, we can hang you for one minute then increase from there. But surely you have enough stamina at the start, since you take _such_ good care of your _health_. Honestly, Houdini was restrained by a straitjacket and chains upside down and he was out of it in three minutes. I'm sure you can manage a few more since you'll not be exerting energy.”

“Mr. Holmes.”

“But if we factor in your age, it could be --”

“Mr. _Holmes_.”

“-- significant, as your brain matter has decayed more than mine. It would have been inferior to begin with but one must take what one can get.”  
  
“ _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock finally pauses, startled. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, in front of John's chair. John grips his forearm tightly to stem the constant babble.He finally has Sherlock's attention. He takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“Sherlock. I will agree to three minutes--”

“Excellent! Let me--”

“IF! If you let me take a look at your hand afterward.”

Sherlock pulls his arm out of John's grasp and cradles the wounded limb to his chest. He mutters under his breath.

“It's fine.”

“It most certainly is not. I'll do as many bloody experiments as you like, just – let's get that taken care of so you don't lose your hand.”  
  
“Don't be preposterous!”

“Do you want me to do your ridiculous test or not?”

Sherlock answers by loudly knocking more books off the bed to the floor until he digs out a musty cushion. He drops it on the floor between John's brogues. He holds out a hand to John.

“Give me your pocket watch.”

“Haven't you got one of your own?”

“Yours is closer.”

He snaps his fingers impatiently. John fumbles with the chain.

“All right, all right, keep your trousers on.”

He drops the watch in Sherlock's palm with ill temper and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his forearm. Sherlock takes John's seat from the bed and the doctor sits still for a moment, thinking logistically about how to flip himself over and not look ridiculous.

Deciding that there's no other way for it, he slides his knees over the arm of the wide chair, cradled awkwardly. Hooking his legs over the back of the chair next, he flops his hands down beside his head, bringing himself down onto the cushion. Already the blood is rushing down and his face turns red.

Sherlock looks at the watch once and then doesn't look again, watching John's face instead. The doctor tries to focus on the wood grain of the floor, counting seconds. Sherlock announces the one minute marker and John makes the mistake of looking at his face. The other man is terribly serious, elbows on his knees as he watches John intently.

John can't help it; he bursts into laughter.

So great are his giggles that he loses his grip and rolls himself up into the chair, clutching his sides. He sits sideways in the chair, one hand over his red face until he can calm down. He can't look at Sherlock just yet, but he can tell by his tone that he is not happy.

“If you've quite finished.”

Another ripple goes through John, but then he waves his hand, biting his lip to hide his smile.

“Now you've ruined two experiments. I do hope it was worth it, whatever you're laughing at.”

“This is just. Very silly. Sherlock, this is something a child would do and you're taking notes about it. You might as well see which one of us could last longer at hide and seek.”

Sherlock crosses his arms and John can see the strop brewing from his seat.

“If I'm childish, then so are you. You're the one that agreed to help me with this, but if you've rescinded that offer, I have no further use of you.”

“Oh stop. Did I say I was quitting? I just thought it was funny. Let me catch my breath and we'll go again. You might can hide your face this time, it's distracting.”

John catches the flash of surprise on the other man's face before he looks at the pocket watch. The doctor gets ready to flip himself around, taking deep breaths to prevent further unwanted bouts of laughter. Sherlock glances at him.

“Begin.”

oOo

 

John's shoulder is dissolving into fire. This is the fourth round of testing, with the time increased to five minutes. They're three minutes into this round and John's fingers grip the floor to prevent the shivering in his arms. His eyes remain closed this time to better his concentration.

He snaps them open when he hears Sherlock move beside his chair.

“Give me your hands.”

John tries to crane his neck and see Sherlock's face.

“What?”  
  
“Don't be an idiot. Give me your hands. You're obviously in pain and this will be our last round for today. I will help you up to ease the stress on your left shoulder.”

John hesitates, despite the growing twinge in his shoulder, then leans forward enough to take Sherlock's hands. Most of his weight is still on his head, but Sherlock is leaning over the chair and pulling his hands to balance their weight.

His hand wrapped in bandages is hot and John worries that an infection might have already spread to the unattended skin. But his other hand is stronger, slender fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. John finds himself unable to remember when last someone touched him anywhere besides where he shook hands. The thought depresses him but Sherlock tugs harder and pulls John upright in the chair. The doctor breathes deeply, his face as red as ever, and takes a moment before he opens his eyes to seek Sherlock.

He hasn't moved and is close enough to unnerve John. The doctor clears his throat.

“The test?”

Sherlock looks at every corner of his face before he turns to the bed and picks up the notebook where they had been listing the different groups of bones in the body with increasing difficulty levels. John answers all of the questions correctly and Sherlock frowns.

“What? What's wrong?”  
  
Sherlock throws the notebook over his shoulder.

“Inconclusive results.”  
  
“That means there wasn't any difference in me standing on my head like a monkey or me sitting at my desk on a Tuesday.”

The other man glares which makes John smile.

“Well, at least I gained a new _perspective_ from all this.”

Sherlock groans.

“Was that an attempt at humor? Please contain yourself in the future.”

John laughs and delights in the small chuckle that escapes Sherlock. He claps his hands together and pulls himself into a more respectable position.

“I've held up my end of the bargain.”

Sherlock hesitates before he stands up and dutifully retrieves John's bag. John frowns at his resignation when he takes the kit from him.

“You know, this won't be all that terrible. You don't have to look quite so glum."

The other man says nothing and John scoots off the chair onto the floor. The boards shift and creak and Sherlock drops gracefully in front of him, tailor style. He tucks the uninjured hand under his chin, leaning and brooding, and holds the other palm out to John, the very image of disinterest.

John worries his lip for a moment and reaches into his kit to retrieve a pair of surgical scissors. The mess of bandages on Sherlock's hand wraps around from mid-finger to his wrist, obviously done with one hand. John notices the hasty knot at the base of his palm and figures he must have tied it with his teeth.

He doesn't make any noises of disapproval or other outwards signs of condemnation. The scissors snip through the backs of the bandages to avoid the damaged area and the dirty cloth begins to fall away and reveal the mess of blisters and raw skin on Sherlock's palm. John holds the back of his hand up to his eye line and studies the work he'll have to do. Sherlock still stares out the window.

“What did you do?”  
  
Sherlock doesn't say a word.

“It'll help me. I don't want to treat you for one thing when you need another.”

"Too much potassium permanganate and ethylene glycol in one flask. The flask exploded under the pressure and shattered in my hand. Then _this_ happened.”

He gestures with his chin at his hand. John reaches in his bag for his antiseptic, dowsing a few clean cotton squares.

“How many days ago was this?”

“A week.”

John pulls in a quiet breath and thinks about the extra damage Sherlock had been causing himself in the past week. He doesn't even know the man, but he already knows he's a stubborn bastard. He should have had medical attention ages ago. Sherlock spreads the fingers of his other hand and shows them to the doctor.

“See, this hand was caught in the blast and it's fine.”

There is only a slight pink tinge to the other hand, but if Sherlock thinks he can justify not taking care of himself because of that, he's not as smart as John thinks he is.

“Yes, but we're not talking about that hand. We're talking about this one. This is going to sting.”

To Sherlock's credit, he barely flinches when the cool cloth swipes gently around the edges of his hand, inflaming the already irritated skin. John indicates the angry blisters.

“We're going to need to get rid of those.”

He thinks about the bedside manner he would have normally pulled out by now, quiet and comforting to the wails of the sick. But Sherlock wordlessly puts his hand upwards on the plain handkerchief John pulls out of his own pocket and smooths across his knee. Somehow John knows those empty platitudes would only irritate Sherlock so he restricts his words to orders.

  
He digs for a moment in his bag, finding his small travel medical kit and the least vicious looking needle in the lot. He wipes it down with antiseptic and does his best to brace Sherlock's arm against his leg. Setting to work, Sherlock's forearm jerks against him at the first strike, so he does his best to work quickly. After a few more small flinches from Sherlock, John finds a topic to distract him.

“I spoke with Molly and Lestrade last night at dinner. They had all sorts of interesting stories to tell about you.”

Sherlock says nothing, but John feels his attention.

“You were quite the general, they said. Would have been useful to have someone who knew what they were doing when I was out there in France.”

John half-smiles to show it was a joke and Sherlock is watching him work now.

“They played the exact way as they did before. The only difference was I was bored outside instead of inside.”

John, being fairly perceptive, detects the falsehood in Sherlock's words, but lets it go.

“Lady Molly was attempting to tell me your occupation. Not a policeman, not quite a private investigator?”

Sherlock scowls.

“Molly never could string two words together to make a sentence.”

John pauses bent over the other man's hand and sits up, his mouth a hard line.

“I'll have you take that back, sir.”

Sherlock's eyes alight with mischief and he matches John's stare.

“Or you'll do what?”

He flexes his fingers and John realizes he's still cradling Sherlock's hand with one of his own.

“I'm not the one with a sharp instrument over my hand.”

Sherlock tilts his head in concession.

“Why do you care? You have known her two days.”

“And she's been a lovely and gracious host since I've met her. I won't have her besmirched in front of me.”

Sherlock narrows a shrewd look at him and smiles to himself.

“Such loyalty so quickly, doctor. I'm not usually one to revoke the truth, but in this instance, I'll take back what I said.”

John's not sure if he's being insulted or not, but takes the statement at face value, bending back to his work. Sherlock continues.

“I'm a consulting detective, if you must call it something. The only one in the world.”

He speaks dispassionately, but there's a thread of pride in 'only one in the world' that John does not miss.

“What does that entail?”

“I take clients if they're not too dull, or I help the bumbling puppets at the Yard if they're being particularly thick. Which is all the time.”

“You live in London?”  
  
“Yes, why would anyone choose to live here?”

The countryside is quite nice and John's daydreams from yesterday are still fresh in his mind. He supposes it's not for everyone and doesn't protest. He doesn't dwell on why he would like to leave London for good.

He pulls out fresh bandages and places a small wad of padding in the middle of Sherlock's palm before wrapping the limb in careful, even swathes of cloth. He ties the neat work off and smooths his own fingers over the bandages, just testing the durability. Looking up, he finds Sherlock watching him curiously and a shade confused.

John clears his throat and releases his hand, replacing his equipment in his kit.

“So what are you doing in the country?”

The question slides out of his mouth before he can think of why he should not ask it. Both Molly and Mycroft had hinted that Sherlock was not here on his own terms and of course, John stumbles all over proper conversation. This was why Mary said he would never fit at any of her parties. He would hate to embarrass Sherlock or have him cross after they were doing so well today.

He stands with a forced nonchalance he doesn't feel and makes a great show of brushing off his trousers while Sherlock unfolds from floor. He studies his bandages and doesn't answer John, but from what the doctor can tell, he doesn't appear angry.

“You'll come to dinner tonight, John.”

John blinks and peers at his shoes.

“Ah, I'm sorry. Plans made for this evening already. I'd be happy to come tomorrow night?”

He smiles hopefully and slides his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock looks down on him for a moment before nodding and turning back to his chair. John worries about these easy dismissals he seems to earn in this house, but decides it's probably just Sherlock's way. 

He picks up his bag and makes his way out of the grand house. 

John is all the way back at Hooper House before he realizes Sherlock still has his pocket watch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouragement so far. This was a tough one to write, as I want them to get to know each other a little better. The meat & potatoes of the plot get started next chapter so they needed to like each other a bit first! Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

John spends the following day needlessly worrying about dinner with Sherlock. Should he wear the nicer set of clothes he packed or would he be overdressed? Should he get William to drive him to save his shoes from mud? The Holmes House felt more formal than Molly's comfortable table and the last thing John wants is to be out of place. His mind loops back to the problem again and again while he and Greg wander the fields surrounding Hooper House for the day.

They spread their lunch under a shady tree after a few hours of exploring and alternate talking and dozing in the summer heat. Greg contemplates the bicycles he saw near a garden shed in the rear of the house.

“It wouldn't take long to ride them to town. Surely there's a pub there.”

“We drove past one. But, as your doctor and your friend, I would not recommend the bicycles.”

Greg frowns at his leg stretched out in front of him, but smiles boyishly at John.

“Oh, but you'd be the one pedaling. I'll just hook my feet on the pegs of the back wheel. Won't have to bend my leg at all!”

John chuckles and throws a handful of torn grass in Greg's direction.

“There's you, taking advantage of your lessers. I would surely deserve a treat after that much hard work, especially with all the hills in the area.”

“I'll buy you a drink when we get there.”

“Make it two.”

“I always knew you'd drive a hard bargain, Watson. Two it is.”

They mockingly shake hands and dissolve into laughter again. Greg picks up an apple to shine on his rolled sleeve.

“We can check on the bike when we get back. I'm sure they'll only take a little oil to make them ship -shape.”

John coughs into the crook of his elbow, looking to the side.

“Ah, I've made other plans for the evening.”

“What, at the Holmes House?”

“Sherlock invited me to dinner.”

“ _Sherlock_ invited you?”

A thread of defensiveness lines his reply.

“Yes, _Sherlock_. I'm to dine there tonight, so we can go to the pub tomorrow night.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

Greg sucks on his apple thoughtfully and wipes a sticky trail of juice from his chin.

“Just – you must know what he's like by now. I'm not sure why he's inviting you to dinner, but... Be careful.”

Greg's words sting and John swigs a hasty mouthful of water from his flask.

“I'm sure it's going to be fine, mother hen. He wouldn't have invited me if he didn't want me to come.”

But despite John's reassurances to himself that the seed of friendship was at least planted between himself and Sherlock, Greg's warning hooks in the back of his mind and won't let go. Sherlock had introduced himself by lying to John. What's to say that he wasn't lying again for his own amusement?

 

oOo

They get back in time for John to bathe and neatly comb his hair before he seeks out William to drive him to Holmes House. He smooths his hands nervously over his finer waistcoat. He forewent the tie, but had Mrs. Hudson brush his jacket before he left.

John clucks at himself for being so skittish. He reminds himself of a school girl getting ready for her first dance and the mental image makes him scowl even further.

It's just dinner, getting to know an interesting near-stranger. Likely, Mycroft would be there, too.

John is let into the house by the strange young lady from before. She greets him cordially enough, but says nothing more as he is led to an elaborate dining room.

The room is old, but the soft buzz of recent electric lights speak of modern additions. They shine on the imposing long table with a gentle glow. Side tables and discreet doors for servants lie shadowed behind the rows of chairs, but the extra surfaces are empty. The only person in the room is Sherlock at the far end of the table, leaning over the back of a tall chair and tapping his fingers impatiently against the velvet cushions.

John frowns. Sherlock looks like the king of an empty kingdom. No voices fill the halls, no bustling busy servants – lonely. He wonders if Sherlock notices, if it bothers him.

“John. You're late.”

John comes forward from the opposite end of the dining hall, making his way towards the other man. Sherlock drops himself unceremoniously into the stiff backed chair, slouching and crossing his arms.

“I might make better time if I had my pocket watch. And don't slouch.”

He hides his smile as Sherlock pushes even lower in his seat and slides his timepiece along the table where John catches it neatly.

Much to John's confusion, Sherlock doesn't say another word for the rest of the dinner.

He straightens in his chair to receive his food when a man John hasn't seen before brings in their bowls of soup, their strips of veal, but gives no indication of thanks. When John asks about how his hand is healing, he waves a few bandaged fingers dismissively and goes back to pushing his soup around. After a few more false starts of small talk, John lapses into silence and watches his own food.

Did he do something to offend? He looks at Sherlock across the table, who is pretending to eat. His expression isn't one of anger, so that's not it. The set of his shoulders are loose, relaxed, like a normal dinner mate. Sherlock shifts to study him as well and John only sees curiosity there – and challenge. He could ask outright why Sherlock won't speak to him, but he can tell on some level that it would be a disappointment to the other man.

John turns to the atmosphere between them. There certainly is a tension, but it's only from John struggling to figure out why the other man remains silent. He catches the tiny smile on the detective's face as he looks down to his peas and John settles in.

If he wants to play a game, then John will win. The mood turns playful then and certainly more comfortable than John was before. He tucks into his fine food and thanks the serving man for the both of them when he replenishes their wine. Halfway through the meal, Sherlock gives up the pretense of eating and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, watching John eat.

John doesn't waver, chewing his food deliberately. He can play chicken, too. Neither of them look away as their plates are cleared and fresh glasses of wine sit at their sides. Sherlock's fingers unfold as they are left alone and he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, a wide grin spreading across his face. John feels his own smile matching it and when their laughter breaks, it bounces into every corner of the empty hall.

They're still smiling as Sherlock waves off the girl with the notebook standing at the door to the dining hall. He trails John to the front door and the doctor turns to face him on the threshold, the night air thick and sweet at his back.

He sticks out a hand for Sherlock and they shake. As he grips Sherlock's uninjured hand, John notes in the back of his mind that he hasn't felt this relaxed in months. He feels like he learned more about this man tonight than if he'd read his biography. The thought makes him smile again and Sherlock gives him a lazy one in return. If Sherlock was up to something nefarious, John's having such a good time, he's not sure he would mind.

He recognizes the air between them turning smug and shocks himself to realize he is still shaking Sherlock's hand. He releases him with a muttered apology and backs further onto the front step.

The rattle of William's car breaks their silence.

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock's deep murmur startles him after not hearing him for several hours. He nods and says his own goodbyes, trundling into the carriage of the car. He doesn't look back at the house when they leave, knowing he would find a slim figure standing there, silhouetted like something out of a storybook.

If there was anything John's life _was not_ , it was a storybook. He puts the thought aside and lets the contentment of the evening follow him home.

 

oOo

 

He alternates his days and evenings at the Holmes and Hooper Houses. If he spends the day with Sherlock, he goes to dinner with Molly and Greg, and the opposite. He thought traveling to the country would have left him with nothing to do, long hours stretching out until they decided to go home.

His days are filled, but not overfull. While Hooper House has a truly impressive library, the Holmes House shelves are filled with hundreds of books, including thick anatomy catalogs and other medical books. It would be dry reading for most, but Sherlock seems to understand the obscure contentment John draws from reading about ancient Greeks and medieval cures.

The history books are next, row after row filled with recorded time, and John chooses several slim volumes one afternoon, tucking them under his arm as he goes back upstairs to Sherlock's room. He slides his shoes off at the door after carefully searching for any detritus on the way to the comfortable chair.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his stool, carefully focused on placing tiny drops in a dish. John's not sure he would understand what the man was doing even if he could be bothered to explain anything.

John clicks the electric fan on next to the open window before sighing and dropping heavily into the chair. The covering material is thick and traps heat, causing him to shift around uncomfortably before coming to a decision. He sets the books down on the armrest and quickly slides the buttons loose on his waistcoat, pulling the extra layer of clothing off and draping it across the end of Sherlock's bed.

A few buttons go at his neck. The buttons at his wrists come next and he rolls his shirtsleeves to expose his forearms. He picks up his book and flips it to first page, where a nameplate holds neat handwriting - 'This book belongs to Mycroft Holmes, age 8.'

Curious about the elder Holmes, he sticks a finger in the book and opens his mouth to ask Sherlock. He finds he already holds the detective's attention. His hands have paused in their delicate work, hanging midair while Sherlock narrows a look at him.

John clicks his mouth shut.

“What is it?”

Sherlock's look darts quickly to John's forearms, then he goes back to work.

“Nothing. What did you want to know about my insufferable brother?”

John scratches uncomfortably at his wrist for a moment, not quite sure if he's offended Sherlock with something. He snorts and decides he doesn't care. He flips the book over to study the plain back of it.

“You never talk about him. I know that you have an occupation, but he seems to like that air of old dramatic mystery. Does he also work?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Oh come now, Sherlock. I told you all about my family the other night!”

John had come over for dinner again, dressed in his regular clothes. Sherlock was the only one who came to the table and there was no point in trying to impress him. Sensing another completely silent meal, John chose to talk about himself instead. He felt a little guilty that he had heard stories of Sherlock's childhood second-hand and wanted to even things out. Of course, once he was back in bed in Hooper House, he realized he probably hadn't told Sherlock anything he hadn't already deduced for himself.

“Hmm, yes. I didn't ask you to do that.”

John huffs and reopens his book.

“Yes, well, you didn't tell me to stop either.”

He can hear Sherlock rolling his eyes and looks up to see him give a great, put-upon sigh. The detective sets down the dish and swivels on the stool, one leg pulling up for him to grasp at the knee. His trouser leg rides up to reveal a shocking red sock.

“He wouldn't want me to tell you, so I will. There were some very important people behind the War, on both sides of the trenches. You have him to thank for getting rid of half them and replacing them with himself, then halting the firefight.”

His tone turns droll.

“You also have him to thank for the recent dire cake shortages in London. Tragic business, really.”

“Ah, the beauty of brotherly love.”

Sherlock hums and his eyes close.

“You don't like to talk about your sister – I don't like to talk about my brother. We're square.”

John nods in compliance and returns to his book. He gets a few page in before he notices Sherlock still seated facing him. He makes an inquiring noise.

“I want you to come to dinner tonight.”

The doctor considers the offer. It would change their normal routine, but he was on holiday and one isn't supposed to be strict on holidays. He supposes Greg and Molly will forgive him.

He shrugs.

“I don't see why not. I'm going to run out of interesting things to talk about soon.”

“Oh, you ran out ages ago.”

John cries in mock outrage, chucking a book at Sherlock, who deftly catches it with a grin.

“I should take back my acceptance.”

“You won't.”  
“You're right. Shall I just wash up here then? I don't fancy walking all the way back to Hooper House just to wash my face and then tramping back in the dark over here.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

John had learned in the past two weeks to stop taking offense at Sherlock's biting remarks. He came to know that they were often said more out of absentmindedness than spite. He could see how it would put others off, if they weren't familiar with the acerbic detective. Then again, most people were smart to take offense at being called an idiot regularly. John's not sure what that says about him.

He reads his book and Sherlock talks at him while he works for the rest of the afternoon.

 

oOo

John knows perfectly well where the loo is located and tries to make it there by himself when it's time for dinner. Sherlock follows him down the stairs and to the appropriate door anyway. They are deep in discussion about decomposition that should be putting John's appetite off. The opposite occurs and he corrects Sherlock on several matters, which sets Sherlock into a rant about his own tests and how certain _doctors_ are _wrong_.

John's reply is a little garbled as he tries to retaliate while washing his face and Sherlock takes the opportunity to launch into another lecture on how modern medicine lacks the ambition of the grave robbing doctors of a few decades before.

The doctor gropes for a hand towel with his eyes closed and listens to Sherlock prattle on. He startles when a hand encircles his wrist, stops his reaching and places a towel in his grip. He scrubs his face and peers at Sherlock, but the detective has not stopped talking yet and turns on his heel to lead John towards the dining hall.

It was a small thing, but John feels off balance by Sherlock grabbing his wrist, instead of just handing him the towel. He thinks nothing more of it as Sherlock is leaving him behind, and he scurries to catch up, footsteps hushed as he goes down the worn velvet steps of the main staircase.

They argue some more over a minor point, shoulder to shoulder as they walk, when they reach the dining hall and Sherlock abruptly stops his speech and his stride.

Seated at the head of the table – John stamps out the thought of their end of the table – is Lord Mycroft Holmes. The lord dabs his lips daintily and pulls back his chair, making no noise. The only sound beside Sherlock's quick breathing beside him is the scratch of a pen to paper, as the strange woman from the door writes non-stop in the shadows to Mycroft's left.

The elder Holmes spreads one hand in a conserved, but welcoming gesture.

“Good evening, doctor. I thought I might join you and my brother this evening, if it's not too much of an inconvenience?”

John senses the fire building in Sherlock's belly, though he's not sure how, and he grips the other man's wrist quickly, before the storm can be loosed.

“Of course. It is your home after all. We'd be delighted.”

Clever eyes take in their position all at once and Mycroft smiles tightly. John's not sure the man knows any other way to smile.

“I'm not certain you can speak for my brother on this matter, Dr. Watson. But please, do have a seat.”

Sherlock and John split, taking to opposite sides of the table. Before John can reach for his own chair, the woman is behind him, silently pulling out his chair. He thanks her and watches her retreat again. Mycroft speaks.

“That's Anthea, my personal valet. Her competency more than makes up for any conflicts caused by our close working relationship and opposite genders in polite society.”

John rather thinks of her as a ghost, shadowing Mycroft and transcribing everything he does and says in some ancient, lost script. He comes out of the daydream at Sherlock's sharp tone.

“I'm not sure we'll have enough food to feed us all, John, now that brother has decided to join us. Uninvited.”

Mycroft takes the insult in stride and turns to John instead.

“How is my brother's hand coming along, doctor? I do worry about his health.”

John glances at Sherlock, not sure how to answer. Mrs. Hudson nearly fainted when he told her he was regularly having dinner at Sherlock's table. She said she couldn't remember the last time she saw him have a proper meal. Under John's complaining that he felt odd being the only one eating at the table, Sherlock had taken to cleaning at least half his plate while they talked.

The results were great. Sherlock wasn't necessarily filling out his trousers, but some color had returned to his cheeks and he had lost the gauntness around his eyes that had been troubling John the first few days of their acquaintance.

True to his medical vows, John had also been taking care of Sherlock's hand, chiding him when he reached for something dangerous with the still healing appendage and regularly swapping the bandages. The seeping had stopped and Sherlock no longer winced in irritation when he moved his fingers.

He pulls his gaze back to Mycroft's patient face.

“I'd say it's doing quite well, considering all the things he puts it through.”

He expects Sherlock to stick out his tongue, so childish is his expression, but he refrains and John stifles a smile.

“I'm pleased to hear it. It seems you are speeding up his recovery from his initial illness as well. A fine doctor indeed. He has told you why he's here, hasn't he?”

The air goes cold and Sherlock stiffens from slouched insouciance to straight-backed outrage in seconds. John had very carefully avoided asking Sherlock why he was confined to Holmes House instead of free to roam London back alleys, as he very obviously wanted to do. He thought Sherlock would come to tell him in his own time and he felt a sliver of hate for Mycroft dart through him for so cruelly taking the choice away from his brother.  
He hides behind stiff politeness.

“No. He has told me nothing. I haven't asked.”

Mycroft either willfully ignores the tension, or he wants to tell John anyway. He levels a strange stare on Sherlock while addressing John. The doctor watches coldness settle across Sherlock's expression.

“I found my brother in hospital two months ago, near death.”

John notes the clench in Sherlock's jaw, the tightening of his mouth.

“He had been chasing a serial killer through our London for three weeks, leaving his body neglected and abused.”

Sherlock is deathly quiet when he speaks to John, his eyes locked on the doctor's concerned face.

“I caught him.”

Mycroft continues.

“The doctors there told me that he had not eaten in at least a week. He had maybe had a glassful of water in three days time, so dehydrated was he.”

“I couldn't leave him. He would be free if I had left. The trail would have died and so would the girl he planned to taxidermy.”

“He couldn't walk for lack of nourishment that first day.”

“He'll hang, John.”

“So I decided it was time to intervene.”

John cannot look away from Sherlock. His hard expression had shifted nearly to pleading by the end of his entreaty to the doctor, whispering as if his brother was not there, that he told him these things only because he knew John would understand.

The doctor possessed his own strong morals and sense of justice, which cheered with Sherlock's side of the story. But to think of the detective bedridden from exhaustion pricks his medical mind and he would love to have a look at Sherlock's files. He knows that the obtuse man has certainly not been following any London doctor's orders for relaxation or eating more food while sequestered at Holmes House.

“My brother has always struggled with addiction, doctor.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and John cannot tell if it's from shame or an attempt to control himself.

“Narcotics used to be his favorite distraction --”

“Not anymore.”

“--Before he found crime solving, which he has found ways to abuse as well. I thought we were doing so well, Sherlock.”

Suddenly, John can't stand this conversation anymore. He looks to Mycroft and recognizes the soft lines of pain around his mouth as he watches his brother quietly lose his temper. He expected Sherlock to break the dishes, snap the chairs, but his white knuckled fists rest on the table, a fine tremor shivering through him.

The two of them don't really know each other that well, Sherlock and he, but John feels deep empathy and maybe responsibility for him that goes beyond a normal doctor's concerns. He can well understand the feeling of stagnating in one's own life, trapped in box that doesn't fit, not even hoping for happiness anymore. Trapped in an attic with no one to talk to.

Sherlock wasn't too far off the mark when they first met, with his biting accusation that John wanted to fix him because he couldn't fix himself. There was a small part of his mind that grudgingly conceded what he would never admit aloud. He could at least try to make someone happy in his life and although Sherlock seemed almost allergic to happiness, when he did smile, it felt better to John than any victory on all the battlefields he swept.

Such an intellect cramped here in the middle of nowhere with no stimulation, to stop growing – the thought repels him.

“I could help him in London.”

He holds the full attention of both Holmes brothers.

“I mean I – if you like – you don't – I'm a doctor.”

Sherlock's mouth curves into a smile despite the tension.

Mycroft settles back in his seat in a pose remarkably similar to his brother's, fingers pulled together in front of his mouth. They both seem content to let John work this out for himself.

“You could let Sherlock come back. To London, I mean. I could be his physician with regular checkups, the whole lot. I don't have a heavy patient load. It would be no trouble, honestly.”

John has looked down the barrel of many an enemy rifle, but he cannot look across the table to Sherlock. His courage fails him after his bumbling offer and he adjusts the silverware.

Just when the silence edges on unbearable and he knows he could excuse himself to go wallow in humiliation, Mycroft speaks to his brother.

“Sherlock?”

John looks up to catch the entirely silent exchange between the brothers. The volley of subtle expressions back and forth are lost on John, but Mycroft suddenly turns back to the doctor.

“I will have records of your visits to him. Anthea will draw up a formal contract. If the results are satisfactory, you will be well compensated for your time.”

John finds himself bristling on Sherlock's behalf, to him being treated like a child when he was sitting right there, but something in Sherlock's expression stays him. John imagines he'll go pack immediately. He'll not get a moments rest now that Sherlock knows he can leave. John will have to tell Greg when he gets back to Hooper House that their holiday has come to an end.

Sherlock stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across the floor.

“John, a word.”

He leaves the table abruptly and the door swings open behind him.

John makes his hasty excuses and rushes to follow. Sherlock is not in the hall, but the grand front door hangs ajar and he goes outside to find Sherlock perched on a low stoop next to the steps. He's already lit a cigarette and rolls it nervously between his fingers where he takes drag after drag. He stands to his full height when John stops beside him.

He takes a hard pull from the cigarette and blows out the smoke before stooping level with John's face.

“I'll not be pitied, John Watson.”

“I don't pity you.”

Sherlock scoffs and spins on his heel, kicking up gravel. He smokes frantically a few feet away, his shoulders hunched.

John chooses his next words with care.

“Sherlock, we are... very alike, you and I. I didn't make my offer out of pity. I made it out of understanding. You're suffocating.”

He lets the implied 'like me' dissolve unsaid between them.

Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, rolling the cigarette back and forth in those long fingers.

“I'm... maybe being a bit selfish as well. I've not laughed in months, Sherlock, and we've laughed everyday I've been here. I'm not saying everything will be roses, not with your moods, but you – we can – blast!”

John throws up his hands in frustration. The words won't come and he feels the import of the moment. Everything hangs in the balance of his words and he doesn't want to mess this up before it's even begun, whatever is between them. He's never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes and there is no way he's letting this extraordinary man walk out of his life without a fight.

After a long silence, Sherlock finally drops the smoke and twists it beneath the toe of his shoe. He stuffs his hands in his pocket and comes to stand before John in the glow of the lamps by the doors. The detective studies John's face and the doctor tries to reveal his honesty as best he can.

The tension between them snaps and Sherlock holds out a hand to John. He shakes it in confusion, but with growing happiness. Sherlock doesn't smile, but John sees the creases at the corner of his eyes that he has come to recognize as the madman being pleased.

“Tell Lestrade to pack his bags. We leave on the 8:30 tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

The train shrieks and rumbles them across the countryside.

John sits by Greg, his ankles crossed next to Sherlock's long legs. The detective sways with the movements of the train. His narrow glare stays focused on the captain.

He and Greg had not hit it off immediately, as John would have liked. Sherlock seemed to take it as some personal affront that John wanted to sit next to Greg instead of him in the tiny carriage. Greg thought Sherlock was being childish and was in no way shy from telling him so. The pleasant reunion of childhood friends that John imagined had now turned into the present moment, a nasty stalemate of a stare off.

Sherlock's arms lock across his chest as he continues to give Greg the silent treatment. Greg suffers with great dignity, taking the high road and sulking behind his newspaper. They both had said some things that John thought they should take back and he wonders if there would be any peace to be found on this trip.

He sighs and kicks at Sherlock's feet.

“All right, budge over.”

Sherlock looks surprised, then shoots the smuggest look possible at the captain, who stoically does not look up from his paper. John sees the tightening of his mouth anyway. The doctor squeezes himself in between the wall and Sherlock's lanky bulk. He pokes the detective in the ribs which lessens the smugness for a second.

“You – knock it off or I'll assign you strict bed rest for a week. I'm only sitting over here because every one knows you sit across from your conversational partners and I wanted to have a chat with Greg.”

John keeps his smile in check as Sherlock's expression turns thunderous with outrage, but Greg does nothing of the sort, barking out a laugh and folding his newspaper neatly.

“So John, lovely weather we're having, isn't it?”

John grins.

“Oh yes, Greg, quite lovely. Should be a warm day in London, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, you're right, it shall be.”

Sherlock takes about two seconds of small talk before he growls in irritation and roughly shoves himself into the bench next to Greg. John fakes surprise.

“Oh! Did you want to join in the conversation, Sherlock?”

Sherlock grits through his teeth.

“No. Small talk is tedious.”

Greg nudges him with growing good humor.

“So you didn't want to talk?”

Sherlock bares his teeth at him.

John laughs, drawing Sherlock's attention and finally takes pity on the cantankerous man.

“Come on then. Tell me what's the first thing you're going to do when you get back to London.”

Sherlock's eyes light at the subject and he leans forward, elbows on his knees and outlines in great detail the experiments he wants to pick up and how he's going to put himself back in the pocket of the Yard with re-established contacts.

Despite his earlier reservations, Greg listens with wonder when John asks Sherlock to describe some of his past cases. The two soldiers gape appropriately and mutter 'amazing' or 'incredible' at all the right moments, causing Sherlock to preen unashamedly. John thinks someone should be capturing this, writing all of this down for posterity.

The tension from earlier completely vanishes and Sherlock takes to his audience for the rest of the trip, entertaining them as well as any natural storyteller could.

The train shudders into the station and Greg parts ways with the other two.

“I've got an appointment for tea at the club. I can't say it was exactly good to see you again, Sherlock...”

They shake hands anyway. Greg is enveloped by a bank of steam as he walks off, waving over his shoulder at the pair.

“I'll see you soon, doctor!”

John lifts his hand in farewell, watching until Greg disappears around a turn on the platform. He stands there for a moment more, contemplating returning to his surely empty house. He wonders if Mary even noticed he was gone. Turning to tell Sherlock goodbye, he finds the detective already watching him.

John frowns and looks past Sherlock, opening his mouth to tell him to meet him at his office next week. Sherlock cuts him off.

“I need your assistance at my flat.”

The doctor closes his mouth and purses his lips, drawn back to Sherlock's serious expression.

“Your flat?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock ducks and picks up his one bag of luggage, leaving John to scramble for his own and catch up through the crowd of people.

“What could you possibly – hey! Wait! Sherlock!”

The crowd splits around the taller man and John is stopped by a wall of people jostling and passing each other on the busy platform. He grumbles and wedges his shoulder between a group of chatting men, the mass of people thicker the closer they get to the exit. Of course Sherlock wouldn't slow down for him. Annoyance simmers into anger and he surges forward when a blank spot appears in the crowd. He grips Sherlock's elbow and pulls it to his chest, slowing him down. Sherlock tugs and John digs his fingers into the crook of his elbow to keep hold. He can see the detective smirking, but he doesn't let go and Sherlock pulls him through the crowd, their luggage knocking into passing knees.

John turns his head to apologize, but Sherlock yanks him along again and he swings his bag forward, smacking the detective in the back of his thigh. He digs his heels in and Sherlock slows with a disgruntled sigh.

“Why do you need me at your flat?”

“I need someone to help me unpack.”

“Do you really have that much to do?”

“No, but I haven't been up to my full strength. I'm not sure if I can lift those dreadful boxes by myself.”

John hesitates, glaring at the obvious sarcasm. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“It's not as if you want to go home in the first place. I am offering you an afternoon's distraction.”

The tips of John's ears turn red and he loosens his grip a bit.

“I don't need a distraction.”

“Oh, no, of course you don't. I'm sure you'll have a lovely tea in your empty sitting room, wondering when your – ”

“Don't you dare, Sherlock!”

Sherlock shushes him and a spike of temper shoots through John's temples. The detective waves around them.

“Are you sure you want to argue about this here, John? Nice, respectable doctor like you – wouldn't want to cause a scandal.”

John closes his eyes and counts to ten, willing his heart to calm. He opens his eyes and shoves Sherlock's elbow, twirling him ahead.

“Lead the way, you bastard.”

oOo

Sherlock lives on Baker Street. John doesn't have much time to admire the exterior as Sherlock hops out of the taxi and leaves him to fetch their combined luggage. The cabby takes pity and helps him lug Sherlock's ridiculously heavy carpet bag to the sidewalk before John pays him. He turns to find the detective left the door ajar and has already gone upstairs.

After more deep breathing, John drags the suitcases inside and shuts the door, leaning back against it with a loud thump. There is a door to his right, no lights coming through the seams. A narrow staircase stands before him and he hears the faint buzz of electrical lights being turned on at the next landing. Leaving the luggage, he grips the railing and hauls himself up to 221B.

There are no boxes to unpack and John wonders how many years he will lose off his life from the stress this strange man causes in him. Instead of boxes, there are sheets over the furniture and Sherlock whips them off quickly. John is reminded of magicians leaving the dishes on a table while yanking away the tablecloth. He lightens his own mood thinking of Sherlock trying to wrestle a bunny out of hat before he steps through the threshold.

No boxes, but plenty of junk lies around the flat. Sherlock seems to pick something up and leave it where it sits, if all the books and newspapers lying around are any indication. Heavens, are there books. John spies three sets of encyclopedias lining the book cases next to the fireplace, one set each in English, German and French. Stepping over a stack of cricket cages, he studies the rest of the books. One on butterflies is crammed next to one on automobiles, a whole wall of mixed information that doesn't have a common thread to John's mind. A slim, gray volume is tucked near the end and he starts at the author's name. He pulls it from the shelf and turns around, flipping through it while talking to Sherlock.

“I didn't realize you'd written a book.”

Sherlock doesn't pause as he rips the sheet off a well used leather couch.

“You wouldn't have realized since there are only 100 copies in print. Apparently, not even the empire's finest academics are interested in my important research.”

He sniffs and John smiles.

“It's all about tobacco ash.”

“Precisely. Do you know how many cases I've solved using my findings?”

John senses a rant coming on and thumbs through the book, already tuning out. A postcard slips from the pages to the floor. He bends and retrieves it, a sunny New York scene on the front, addressed from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Most of the messy lettering on the back is gibberish to John and he waves the card at the detective.

“Who's Nikola Tesla?”

“A penpal.”

John frowns and tries to re-read the message.

“With you?”

He looks up to find Sherlock in front of him, all the sheets removed. Thick dust motes float around the room in the slants of light coming through the two tall windows on one wall. Sherlock plucks the postcard and the book from John's hands, slipping the card back between the pages.

“I was studying his eidetic memory. I was told it matched my own, but he surpasses me. He's quite the inventor.”

“Sounds like a nutter.”

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

John peers at Sherlock's face for a moment, but the detective turns away with a clap of his hands.

“Now. How about tea?”

“Oh yes, that sounds lovely, thank you.”

“Good. I'll take three sugars.”

John sighs and glances at the disastrous kitchen.

“I've seen trenches tidier than your kitchen. Do you even have tea?”

“Probably not.”

John groans.

Sherlock goes to the mantel and lifts up a human skull from the corner. Digging his fingers into the cranium, he pulls out a few dusty notes and thrust them at the doctor.

“There's a grocers next door.”

He then turns and ignores John until he grumbles his way downstairs, comes back with the tea and a few food items and tackles the terrible kitchen.

“Sherlock, how do you live like this?! You can't even see the sink.”

“Mmm. Kettle should be in the bottom cupboard.”

John releases a harsh breath through his nose and yanks open the door on the expensive refrigerator only to slam it closed again and gag. Sherlock pauses in the living room.

“I might have left some experiments behind.”

“You will need a new fridge.”

“Nonsense, nothing a little bleach cannot fix.”

“What is that? No, no wait. I don't want to know. As your physician, I highly suggest you clean this out at once.”

“I'll do it later.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Three sugars, John!”

The doctor restrains a frustrated scream and digs through cupboards to find the kettle. Clearing enough space to fill it up in the sink, he puts it on and turns back to wash some cups. While he works, it dawns on him that while he's angry, the depression that threatened to seep in at the train station has completely vanished. No room for thoughts of Mary while he's planning Sherlock's demise. The thought makes him chuckle and he goes about the business of making tea confused, wondering if Sherlock was being so awful with purpose or not.

He leans against the sliding door while their tea steeps, watching Sherlock mutter in the middle of a circle of newspapers, many with holes cut out of them.

“Mycroft's troops have been here. These are out of order.”

“You would have thought they could've cleaned out the fridge before they left.”

“Of course they didn't. That would have been doing me a favor.”

John finds the sugar, sniffing it first to make sure nothing untoward was in it, and brings the cups with him to sit in the squishy chair close to the ring of papers. Sherlock won't take the cup from him, so he places it outside the circle and sips while watching the resorting process. It doesn't make any sense, so he pauses with the cup at his lips.

“Explain it to me.”

Sherlock glances at him, that same searching look that should make him uneasy. The moment breaks and the detective reaches for his tea, beginning a difficult explanation of how his filing system works.

John listens and agrees in the right spots, but he finds himself watching Sherlock instead of really listening. It begins with a medical air; Sherlock's skin is not quite as wan, the peaky look missing from his mouth and cheeks. He's always been animated in the short time John's known him, but he appears steadier now, especially here in Baker Street. He didn't eat on the train, but John brought him the other half of his apple when he and Greg arrived from Hooper House to pick him up. He ate that at John's insistence and had argued that obviously doctors didn't really go away if he ate apples, such a pity.

But really, Sherlock looks much better and John smiles to think of a healthy Sherlock, terrorizing the streets of London with his mad intellect. He must attract all sorts, ready to listen to that brilliance, or at least women to stare at that unconventionally handsome face. He watches the way Sherlock wraps his lips around his rapid words, presses them to his cup, the straight line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones.

“So have you got a lady, then?”

He regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth. Sherlock stops his explanation and watches John fidget. He takes another sip of tea, looking to his files.

“No.”

Oh, of course not! He's been tucked away in the country on an enforced holiday and before that he was wretched with drugs and criminals and who knows what else. John tries to backtrack.

“I'm sure – of course – you won't have any trouble finding someone now. Now that you're back in London. You wouldn't have to worry about it at all.”

Sherlock watches, blank-faced.

“They're not really my area.”

“Oh.”

He frowns and can't meet Sherlock's unnerving gaze. No courtships or marriage prospects to get in the way of his work, it was understandable. Unless he meant...

John does a quick scan of Sherlock without thought, trying to pull together something else to say.

“Oh.”

The exclamation is much softer and Sherlock waits. John swallows thickly and can't push the words out of his mouth. Sherlock might prefer the company of men over women. John doesn't particularly have a problem with it, as he is not in contact with the lifestyle. He simply doesn't think of it, barely knows about the legal ramifications one reads about in the papers. He turned a blind eye in the trenches and he's never been too keen on God fearing, not after all he's seen.

But looking at all the long, lean grace of the man at his feet, the subject is harder to ignore. Could Sherlock really be like that? He knows people call it a perversion, that they're insane. Sherlock certainly acts a bit mad sometime, but he shies from calling him something as harsh as a pervert, a freak. The sharp labels paired with his brilliance make no sense. He tries to gain answers from the detective's expression, but it remains blank and watchful. John can't stand the silence.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“Would you like to get dinner, John?”

The doctor nearly drops the teacup.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dinner. The time traditionally assigned to eat – ”

“I know what dinner means. But. I'm not. While it's fine for you, if you were wondering, there isn't any reason why I –”

“John.”

John flushes and meets Sherlock's eyes again.

For just a moment, John envies that all-seeing sight that Sherlock hones on his surroundings, able to read people and situations so easily. The detective's face is not unkind, but John absolutely cannot tell what he's thinking and sighs in defeat.

“I can't, Sherlock. Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

John stands and gathers Sherlock's empty teacup, taking it into the kitchen with his own.

“I've already been here long enough. I should be getting home.”

“If you say your wife is waiting on you, I'll throw a book through the window.”

The doctor rinses the kettle and cups, putting them away in an uncontaminated corner. He bites the inside of his mouth at the returning tremble in his hands. Sherlock has no right – no right! – to say such things. John turns and leans against the counter-top, studying his shoes and speaking quietly.

“Who are you to talk about her? You've never even met her.”

“I don't ever need to. I've learned all I need to about her from you.”

John curls his fingers into fists.

“That doesn't count, Sherlock. You don't know her like I do.”

“She's obviously a horrid – ”

John exits the kitchen and blocks out whatever Sherlock wants to insult his wife with.

“I'm leaving.”

“John, quit being unreasonable. I know how you feel about her.”

“You don't know anything, Sherlock!”

John's shout bounces to the corners of the room and brings complete silence in its wake. Only the sound of his harsh breathing stirs the heavy tension between them. He pulls in a deep lungful, but his anger doesn't budge.

“Don't presume to know me. She is my wife, Sherlock. She is selfish, yes, and she is ill. Anything between us is none of your concern and I will not listen to you insult her.”

The brief wave of shock on Sherlock's face is enough to cool John's temper and his shoulders release their strain. While he relaxes, Sherlock stiffens, sitting straighter and gathering some of his files to him in a distracted way. No, no, no – this isn't how this was supposed to go.

“Sherlock – ”

“You're right, John. I don't know anything about you. You're free to leave.”

John hangs in the doorway, dreading the severance of a friendship he has come to value more in their short time together than any other in his life. He swallows and doesn't dwell on how this friendship seems stronger already than his own marriage. He needs this stability, the sharp knife of Sherlock's character carving through the dullness of his everyday and shaping him into a new person, a better person. Someone he likes.

Today can't end with an argument.

He walks back to the circle of papers and places some of them aside, despite Sherlock's small protest. Dropping to the floor, he sits and faces the frowning detective. When Sherlock speaks, his tone is icy.

“I'm not going to apologize.”

“Neither am I.”

Sherlock shifts and John can tell he's at the point where he's not going to listen to reason much longer.

“I won't apologize, because everything I said was true. But I don't want it to affect what is between us, Sherlock. I value our friendship, young as it is, and no matter what happens between us, I will honor your brother's task of keeping up your health. Even if you turn to hate me, I will keep you well. I promise.”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“But you can't tell me what I can and cannot feel. That's not how friendships work. Friends can help fix problems for each other, lend a sympathetic ear, but you can't command what you think I should be doing or not doing or what you think I feel.”

Sherlock's expression is still pinched, but John sees it easing its way from his face the longer he talks.

“I'm going home, not as a slight to you, but because I have other responsibilities. Turning you down for dinner today doesn't mean I won't accept when I see you next week. I have a life to lead, too, Sherlock. You must understand.”

Not much of one, John thinks, but he keeps it to himself, watching the detective carefully.

Sherlock absorbs what John says, sighs. He ruffles his hair and drops his newspapers, meeting John's look.

“Yes, of course. You must also understand that I … don't have much experience in this area.”

“I can understand why. You can be a right rude bastard sometimes.”

Sherlock's eyes widen and John can't help the laugh that escapes. The detective frowns and John reaches forward to grasp his knee, still laughing.

“Oh lighten up, Sherlock. I wouldn't stick around if I didn't like you. We'll have dinner next week, how does that sound?”

Sherlock glares, but he can't keep his anger. He breaks into a grin and John's heart lightens with it.

“Dinner next week is fine. I know just the place.”

John pats Sherlock's knee and pushes back to standing, rolling his shoulder.

“Ah, in that case, I look forward to it.”

Sherlock stands and follows John down the stairs, watches as he bends to heft his suitcase. They stand in front of each other for a moment, studying. The silence is comfortable and John smiles. Sherlock's answering smile warms his heart all the way back to his cold home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience while I work on updates for this! I'm flattered if you even got this far. Your kind words have been appreciated so much :) I now have betas! Thanks to Nicole & smaugismyhomeboy for their attention!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of blood, corpses, war time.

Freezing rain stings his face. 

John scrubs a hand across his eyes, clearing his sight for a moment. He's in the trenches, mud sloughing down the walls and brown water rising at his ankles. His boots suck into the dreck with each step. 

He tilts his tin helmet down, the rain bouncing off its round brim. Where are the other soldiers? The trench is empty except for the rats, swimming or scurrying on ledges, fat from the corpses in No Man's Land. He unstraps his bayonet in case they come for him early. 

The trench goes on forever; he cannot see either end. Shells explode in the distance and the ground shakes beneath him. John stops in despair, gripping his hilt with white fingers. Are they all dead? Is it over? 

“It's a dream, Johnny. The war's been over for ages. You're just going crazy.” 

John turns too quickly and staggers against the wall, gripping mud in his fingers.

Mary sits upon the top of the trench in her wedding dress, the one John had peeked at in the church and she had been so angry with him. He had kissed away her frowns because no one should scowl on their wedding day. She's smiling now like she smiled then, a bottle of wine dangling between her swinging legs. 

His heart lurches and he holds out a hand to her. 

“Mary. Come down from there. The snipers...”

She takes a long pull from her bottle then laughs, her lips purple with wine. 

“If I don't move, they can't see me! Lighten up, Johnny! Come dance with me! We never go dancing any more.”

“Mary, please!”

She stands and wobbles, dropping the bottle into the water. The shells are louder now, adding the sharp zip of bullets biting the ground. Mary twirls at the top of the trench and John can't climb it. Where are the ladders? 

“Come back down please! Mary!”

He can hear her laughing over the edge, gone from sight. The aftershocks are sliding more mud down the walls and John can hear the rats chittering and laughing, waiting for him. 

He swings his bayonet wildly, knocking away imagined enemies, insensate with grief. His wife, his Mary – she'll die out there. Over the breach is into death. The harsh rattle of a machine gun sounds and John swallows, his breath sticking in his lungs, fear immobilizing him. He swipes a grimy hand across his brow, mixing cold sweat and rain.

“You're making a bad mess of things, John. The war's over. What are you still doing down there?”

The voice comes from above. Greg is on the opposite ledge of a trench in his captain's uniform. His leg is gushing blood, the ugly gash that nearly took his life splitting the limb apart. It doesn't seem to bother him at the moment as he regards John with a calm, sad stare.  
“Captain, there's something wrong. They've taken all the ladders. They've taken my Mary.”

“She goes where she wants to. No one's taken her.” 

“But you must be able to see her! Tell me, Greg, please! Is she alive?”

“You better get out of there, John. Clouds are coming.”

John looks to the end of the trench and a great hissing yellow fog rushes toward him. He reaches for his pack to find it gone. His hands and face are exposed and when he looks down, the creeping water has been replaced with the bodies of his platoon. Any place he steps, his boots crack bone, the crunching and squelching bodies beneath him so thick he cannot see the ground. 

Panic explodes white hot in his chest and he can't do this any more. Let the gas take him. He crouches, hands over his ears, but all he can hear is his heartbeat, rushing and bursting like the German shells. The embankment is almost upon him when a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him to his feet. He realizes he's crying each time he steps on another soldier, a tear for every comrade. He slows to see their faces, but the man leading him only pulls him faster. 

He has a gas mask on and sturdy garden gloves. John recognizes the dark hair curling beneath the dented helmet. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, where are we going? The gas is too quick. Leave me.”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, the eerie mask shielding his face. He shakes his head and hauls John into a hole that appears in the side of the trench. Sherlock pushes a giant oak door shut against the mustard gas, the door from Holmes House. 

His lungs are burning and he wonders if perhaps the gas got him after all. Every limb trembles violently as he drops to the only cot in the room. Sherlock is still facing the door, his back to John, when a thick rumble knocks against the wood, shaking their chamber. It continues knocking, getting louder with each strike. 

“You should have left me out there. Now they'll kill us both.” 

Sherlock turns and removes his helmet, sliding the mask off his face. His skin is perfectly clean and John doesn't know where he got the water to clean himself. He doesn't know what his own face looks like, but his fingernails are black with filth and the dirt might never go away. He hides his hands when Sherlock approaches, not understanding why he's ashamed. 

The detective crouches in front of John, holding the mask in front of him. His eyes are soft, searching the lines of John's face and he knows he must look awful if he's getting pity from Sherlock. He doesn't want pity – he wants someone to understand him. Maybe since Sherlock's in the trenches too, he can understand now. They can help each other. 

Sherlock puts a hand on his jumping knee. 

“I'm not going to leave you behind, John.”

He stretches up and begins to slide the gas mask onto John's face.

“I'm going to help you live.”

oOo

John wakes gasping. The sheets tangled around him are soaked through and he can feel the stale sweat on his skin. When he rubs at his face, there are tear tracks drying. His body feels pushed past the exhaustion point, weak and trembling. He reaches for the glass of water at his bedside and knocks it to the floor. He stares at the spreading pool for a moment then curls back into himself.

He's tired, but he knows no sleep will come again tonight. There are a few more hours before he needs to be up and he'll have to go into work. John knows from experience that letting this feeling keep him locked in his bedroom is a mistake. He's fought this fight a hundred days and he'll fight it a hundred more. 

Standing, he walks down the hallway towards the linen closet. He might as well change the sheets. No need to trouble Evelyn later. The guest bedroom door is open when he passes and Mary is asleep in there, stocking feet sticking out from beneath the sheets. 

John's heart contracts and he pauses in the doorway, guilt swallowing all other thoughts. His nightmares and dark moods had pushed her further from him, a few years into their marriage. She shifts under the sheets and he takes a step into the room, unsure of what he wants. To touch her? To talk to her? He hasn't held his wife for three years. It's unnatural. 

He gives into the bitter laugh that he thought Sherlock was the perversion. They're the ones that are wrong. They can't even speak to each other without it ending in an argument. How did it get this way?

John shuts the door quietly and retrieves his linens. He makes his bed with precision, all tucked corners and smoothed creases. The cleanness helps him think, even if he's not going to lie down again. He surveys his work with his hands on his hips for a few blank moments, then turns to his desk. He pulls out his leather journal and favorite ink pen, intending to write about Mary. 

He hesitates above the paper, not sure where to begin. Should he make a list of all the good things about his wife? Start at the beginning or what's troubling them now? Would this even help? 

A drop of ink falls from the pen and splashes a blot at the top of the blank page. It spreads for a moment like blood, blooming into a pretty pattern that makes John think of Sherlock's Petri dishes. He presses the end of the pen to his lips and watches the spot dry. When he begins to write, he records what he can remember of Sherlock's last case until it's time for him to leave for work.

oOo

His day stays quiet. He eats a small breakfast, happy to see Evelyn again and he asks after her family. He finds he wasn't really missed at the partnership. No paperwork or worried patients clutter his office and he has no messages to respond to. He sinks into his desk chair and spins halfheartedly, waiting for something to happen.

He gets a few colds and mothers with sniffling children, prescribes some tonics and powders, then closes his day staring at the journal he'd written in the early morning. He brought it with him intending to fill the rest of it with professional notes, but now he can't bring himself to put down anything but Sherlock. 

He equally dreads and thrills at the idea of showing it to the detective. Surely he would shred any pride John had in it, probably to the point where John would never want to write again. But he can't deny that he enjoyed the act, liked writing about Sherlock. He just wanted to get a few details cleared up and to do that, he'd have to tell Sherlock what he was doing. Or, more likely, Sherlock would figure it out the next time he saw John. 

He sighs and stands, gathering his things into his satchel and tucking the notebook away. He bids the secretary good night, seeing her out the door and locking up. He doesn't see his partner, already gone for the day. John knows he's in the office under the good graces of his partner, a family friend. John is a talented healer, but ever since he came back from the battlefield, he seems to get in the way of himself. Matters at home certainly don't help in his professional life and he scowls to think of what his life has become – one maddening day after the other. He's stuck in a loop that he can't break free from and doesn't know if he ever will. 

The heat rises from the sidewalk even as the sun is setting and he tugs on his collar, trying to ease the exhaustion coming from his combination bad mood and overheating. He passes a pub every day on his walk home and always resists the temptation to enter. More than once, he's thought about coming home vindictively drunk, just to give Mary a taste of her own medicine. He never does so, but he has no trouble fantasizing his anger. He can smash plates and slam doors too. 

But he won't, he knows he won't and it makes him even angrier with himself. It can't be healthy for him to have these dueling emotions every instant of the day, to be flat and aimless for hours then burning with anger. 

He's still simmering when he gets home and finds his wife alert and eating dinner. There's a place set for him and he widens his eyes at Evelyn when she takes his bag. She shakes her head and shrugs before scurrying back to the kitchen, leaving the couple behind in an awkward silence. 

John hangs up his suit jacket and comes into the dining room, calmly take his seat. He ladles food into his bowl, the thick stew that Evelyn does so well, and relishes the rich soup, biding his time. Mary breaks first. 

“How was your day?”

He sets down his spoon and watches Mary for a moment before answering. 

“Uneventful.”

She looks better tonight. The long sleep must have done her good. There are still faint bags under her eyes, but her makeup is lighter, her hair less polished. She wears a simple dress instead of the flashy affair from the last time he saw her. His heart warms for a moment that she made an effort to sit down at the table with him and made an attempt to clean up. 

She always looks beautiful, but John can't bring himself to tell her that. He doesn't remember the last time he told her. He only thinks of how often she hears those words from other people – other men. He's just another flatterer in a long line. The mere mention of her name is enough to cause him pain now and he can't meet her eyes when she looks up from her meal. 

“I'm sure you needed an uneventful day after your holiday.”

She's tense, her words sharp beneath the pleasantness she's straining for. She snatches a bread roll from the table and begins buttering it with too much force. John's not sure why she's trying. He pushes away his food, appetite gone. He folds his napkin and she loses her patience. 

“You might have told your wife that you were going to disappear for days on end, not even leaving an address! Where did you go? Was it so important that you had to leave so quickly as to forget a note?”

John hesitates. He wants to talk about Molly and the country and the grand houses.

Sherlock. 

Mary grinds her teeth in impatience and he contemplates telling her what a good time he had, what a wonderful friend he had made. He swipes a hand over his face and sets down his napkin. 

“I went to the countryside with Greg.” 

The transformation of his wife's face is remarkable. Her lips curl in a sneer and he doesn't recognize the creature before him. She pushes back from the table, rattling the dishes, and John moves automatically to steady the table. 

“Oh the countryside was it?”

“Mary...”

“Lovely! Tell me how you found the countryside? Sunny? Beautiful? Anything must be so away from here.”

“Mary, stop.”

He tries to reach out and grab her hand from across the table, but she snatches it away. Her voice quiets when she speaks again.

“Why didn't you invite me, Johnny?”

John can't do this – he can't take these swings. She does this every time they row, jerking from anger to abrupt sadness. She mimics his own emotions and whether or not she's doing it intentionally, John feels mocked. 

Mocked in a way meant to wound, not in the way Sherlock would mock him, all hidden smiles and teasing. He tries to get the other man out of his mind for a damned second – look at Mary! – but he finds his anger irrevocably rising the longer he looks at his wife. He never lets his temper flare in front of her with any outward signs. It's not done, at least not by the type of gentleman John considers himself to be. 

But Mary is making him feel guilty about his holiday, about how much more alive he felt around the strange detective, and the thought makes his blood boil. 

“Yes, I had a lovely holiday. I didn't invite you because you hate the countryside.”

All sadness gone, she rounds on him and slaps her palm on the tabletop. 

“That's not the point! I am your wife and I am afforded certain rights, such as the knowledge of where her husband goes!” 

“Oh, are we talking about marital rights now? I'll tell you all about my holiday if you'll tell me about your latest party.” 

Mary stiffens as if John had slapped her in the face. He's never once in their time together confronted her about her soirees and late hours. 

He drinks in her shock and feels his spine straighten. Maybe he should let anger win every once in a while. Standing, he pushes his chair in and walks past her towards the stairs, his heart burning, not once looking back. He enters his bedroom and presses his face against the cool door, closing his eyes. 

The holiday wasn't long enough. The moment he got home, he didn't feel as if he'd rested at all. He begins undressing and stops, turning to lock the door behind him. The final act of defiance settles heavily in his stomach, but he doesn't know if the feeling is shame or pride. It's been so long since he felt proud of anything he'd done that he can't tell the difference anymore. 

He continues undressing, thinking. That wasn't exactly true. He felt proud when Sherlock smiled at him for saying something right. That was a good feeling from his holiday, but also in Sherlock's flat. He shakes his head and tries to dismiss the detective – irrelevant to the current problem. 

But perhaps he wasn't as irrelevant as John wanted to believe. He pulls back his sheets and places his pocket watch on his nightstand. Removing his shoes, he walks towards his bed and yelps, a sharp pain lancing his foot. 

He sits on the bed and examines a shard of glass protruding from the vulnerable skin, a piece left over from his broken glass that morning. The journal he wrote in in that pre-dawn light sits in his bag downstairs and suddenly John yearns to have it with him, the comfort of writing mindlessly until he could maybe find some rest. Writing about Sherlock. 

His mind turns from that line of thinking. Wanting to equate comfort with Sherlock was dangerous territory, especially from a person as volatile as the detective. John can't help it though, as he finds a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. He holds his foot and stares at the slats in his floorboards. 

Sherlock might be more relevant to his problems as a solution. John finds himself looking forward to their appointment more than anything else he can think of wanting. Even if Sherlock destroys his writing, or asks him to stop, he is actually excited about something for the first time in a long time. The thick, unfeeling cloak around him is shedding and it feels marvelous. Instead of refusing to feel as an alternative to emotional pain, John wants it. He wants to feel things besides rage and grief again. Sherlock is helping with that more than he probably knows. Or cares.

He removes the handkerchief and gives a cursory look over the wound, deciding he'll live. He rolls himself into bed and leaves the covers down, too hot to want to use them. He clicks off the lamp and frowns into the darkness. 

With prying the doors to his emotions open, he is allowed excitement again. But with the happiness will come the rest of his emotions and John has been shut off for so long, he's not sure how he'll cope. The tide is rising and he knows there's nothing he can do to stop the oncoming storm but wait it out and see if he survives.

He'll deal with it in the morning. With a tired sigh, John rolls over and struggles into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to smaugismyhomeboy for continued beta support! You're wonderful :)


	7. Chapter 7

The woman at the next table slurps her tea and the man at another yaps obnoxiously loud to his table-mate. John now knows every detail about this man's marriage to a young heiress, who John bets is just as irritating as her betrothed. The woman slurps again.

John's bones shake and rattle his teacup in the saucer and he's suddenly, violently reminded of gunfire. The steaming machine guns would make the earth and men tremble. The man's table-mate guffaws and claps a hand on the table. John jumps and sets down his cup, a cold sweat brushing his upper lip and brow. The second serving of tea swirls unpleasantly in his belly. He pulls out his pocket watch.

Greg is late.

He snaps it closed, not sure why his patience is fraying so much. Greg usually made perfect time, thanks to the military beating punctuality into them. John knows he's not in the best state of mind which is why he called his comrade for tea in the first place. But it's not going help anything if he doesn't bloody well show –

“John! Good man. Sorry for the delay.”

Greg shakes his hand and drops into the seat opposite. John opens his mouth, unable to help a sharp word, but stops himself at the state of his friend.

The captain's shoulder slope with a great weight and dark smudges under his eyes speak of little sleep. John pushes some biscuits towards him from the plate in the center. Greg puts some on his own plate, but doesn't touch them. John purses his lips and waits for Greg to meet his eyes.

“What's wrong? And don't you dare tell me you're fine; you're the one that chose to become friends with a doctor.”

Greg laughs and looks a bit sheepish, turning to watch the patrons of the cafe. He runs his fingers over his waistcoat and straightens his back, returning his attention to John.

“I wouldn't lie to you. I feel like rubbish.”

John's face creases in concern.

“How long have you been feeling ill? When was the last time you ate?”

The captain laughs and waves a hand.

“No, no, John. It's not an illness of the body. It's a sickness of the heart.”

He taps two fingers over the center of his chest and leans back in the chair, sighing deeply.

John forces a rueful smile.

“You've come to the wrong place for love advice, I'm afraid.”

Greg grimaces and half stretches his hand across the table.

“Forgive me, John. It wasn't my intention to bring more troubles to your doorstep when it's overcrowded with worries as it is.”

“They would still be there whether you brought them to me or not. I said I wasn't the best person for advice, not that I wouldn't listen.”

The captain hesitates and John waves him to continue. After another stilted moment, he begins.

“It's to do with Molly.”

John feigns concern.

“Lady Hooper! I never would have guessed.”  
  
Greg folds in relief.

“Truly? Oh god, I thought I had been so obvious.”

A snort escapes the doctor and he presses a fist to his mouth to stifle anymore traitorous sounds.

Greg frowns.

“What?”

John clears his throat.

“You'll forgive me for being blunt, but you couldn't have been more obvious during our stay if you had sang your love from her balconies.”

The captain's crestfallen expression sways John's pity and he softens his smile to something more serious.

“Don't worry, my friend. Possibly the only person in this wide world who doesn't know is Lady Molly herself. You two are blindly in love with each other. Why haven't you asked for her hand yet?”

“Ah...”

John notes his friend's hesitation and looks down to rub his fingers on the tablecloth.

“We haven't much else to do here. Tell me whatever you like.”  
  
He looks up and smiles.

“I can add mending hearts to my list of considerable skills.”

Greg allows a small, lopsided grin, but retreats back to melancholy as he considers his words.

“I cannot ask her because she is betrothed.”

The doctor straightens in surprise, his eyebrows raised.

“Betrothed! That is unexpected. Is she to be wedded soon?”

“That's just it – she's been promised to this man – a baron – since she was fifteen. To be truthful, Hooper House is not her own and she is a lady only in name. When her future husband returns from India, he can lay claim to the House and its tenant. She can come into her full inheritance once the vows are exchanged.”

“Does Molly love him?”

Greg grips a handful of hair for spare second, voice too loud.

“They've met but the once!”

He tucks his hands back into his lap at the glances from the other customers and stares at his plate.

“She barely knows him.”

“Yet they still want to marry. Isn't that old fashioned?”  
  
John thought all that old money business had died with the war. People didn't think that way, not anymore.

“Precisely what I thought. Not to him though and more importantly, not to our family. He's her first cousin – her father's nephew by a second marriage.”

“That's a bit... What are you to her?”  
  
“I'm her third cousin. I have less of a peerage than the cows in her fields.”

He slumps forward and clasps his hands on the tabletop. John has seen this man in the deepest trenches of hell and yet never saw him so distraught. He bites his lip and waits for his friend to speak.

“How can I ask for her hand, John? She would be giving up her childhood home, her gardens, her fortune to – what? Live in my flat in dirty old London? How can I compete with a _baron_ of all things, someone who could provide for her for the rest of her life – ”

“I'm going to have to stop you there.”

Greg pauses with his mouth agape. When he tries to start again, John raises his hand.

“Do you love her?”  
  
Greg doesn't hesitate. He focuses on John with a strong intensity.

“Desperately.”

“Then ask her.”

“But her – ”

“The hearts in her eyes are not seen to you because you're too busy trying to see around the hearts in your own. Take this risk, Greg. Trust in our friendship when I give you this advice.”

Let one of us be happy, John thinks.

Greg chuckles and John scowls, offended.

“ _You_ came to _me_ for advice, Captain, I'll have you know.”  
  
“Oh calm down. Always to the point, Doctor. That's why I was laughing. I should have known you would get along with Sherlock.”

The statement startles John and he sits back in his seat.

“How do you mean?”

“He's the most straight-forward man I've met in my life. He reveals his every thought, but never says anything about himself. You two are exactly the same.”

John leans forward, growing agitated.

“You know plenty about me! We talk all the time!”

“Yes but look on our recent circumstances. I had to kidnap you just to get you to take a holiday. You're under so much pressure you're losing weight, yet you carry your burden alone. You tell me of your patients, your books you read, everything but the important things, John. Your sadness weighs on my mind and I wish you would let me help where I am allowed or able.”

John's eyes sting with the baring of this friendship between them. Greg is the most honest man he knows, the most honorable and, every once in a while, the wisest. Guilt pushes a flush to his cheeks and he folds his hands around his cold teacup, staring down at his worn fingers. He wants to flail and release the histrionics, cry out his frustration, his anger, his fear at the unfairness of it all like a girl in the dramatic throws of her adolescence.

But the fragile happiness at the thought of requited love in Lady Molly is brightening Greg's face and John cannot – will not – ruin that now.

He pats Greg's hand after a long moment.

“We'll speak of it later. I have an appointment to make and you have a telephone call to place.”

Greg's complexion turns ashen, but he nods slowly, finally taking a long, fortifying sip of his cold tea.

 

oOo

 

Rain drizzles just enough to make John's collar wet on the way to Sherlock's flat. The weather is still so stifling, the moisture only makes him more miserable. By the time he approaches the door of 221B, he's drenched with sweat and the damp, quite irritable.

The door gives under his knock and he rolls his eyes, locking it behind him after he taps his shoes against the threshold.

“Sherlock?”

The flat beside him, 221A, lies silent and unused. No lights are on upstairs and John works his way up the dark stairwell. Worry edges in when Sherlock still doesn't answer him.

“Is anyone home?”

This is their time to meet, John is certain. It's possible Sherlock just forgot and went out. But to not lock the door? He pushes himself up the seventeen steps, grimacing when one creaks. He nudges the door open with his foot, cautiously, waiting for a sound.

After nothing charges him through the door, he sneaks inside, senses on high alert. His eyes adjust to the dimness of the room and his stomach drops.

A dark figure is curled underneath the open window across the room, slumped with his face pressed into his arms atop his propped knees. John rushes to Sherlock and gently grasps his head, lifting in a slow movement. John's heart pounds in his throat as he whispers to the detective.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock's eyes are closed. His hair curls sweetly in the humidity and John brushes it back from his forehead, gauging his temperature. Normal, no fever. His pulse is slightly elevated, but before John attempts to pry his eyes open, Sherlock is looking at him, annoyed.

“What are you doing?”

John huffs, but doesn't remove his hands, tilting Sherlock's head to try and see his eyes in the scant light from the open window.

“Making sure you're not dead. Pretty sure your brother wouldn't appreciate that on my watch. Can you move?”

Sherlock scowls.

“Of course I can move.”

He pushes against the ground to stand, but droops and cannot make it. John raises an eyebrow and the scowl deepens.

“My legs are asleep.”

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He shrugs.

“More importantly, _why_ have you been sitting there?”

John doesn't wait for an answer as he stands to find the lights, certain Sherlock is in no immediate danger. He finds the switch and comes back over to the window, shutting it above Sherlock's head.

“You're being rained upon.”

“It was hot. The rain helped me think.”

“Contrary to popular belief, you can still get a cold in the summer.”

John pulls on Sherlock's crooked elbows, lifting him to his full height and depositing him on the couch nearby. Sherlock drops like dead weight and immediately rolls over to face the couch back. John crosses his arms and watches the rise and fall of his broad back before sighing himself. He walks to the door and hangs up his dripping coat. His shirt, waistcoat and braces are still damp, but he decides he'll live. He calls over his shoulder.

“You're in a mood.”

“Oh! Is that what it is? I was wondering.”

The doctor deflects Sherlock's vitriol by stepping into the kitchen. He comes back with a cloth and wipes up the windowsill. He turns back around with his hands on his hips.

“Where do you keep your towels?”

Silence answers him, so John goes to look for himself. He makes his way into the kitchen and towards the first door he sees, near the back of the room. Easing the door open, he finds Sherlock's bedroom. It's neater than he would have imagined, an unmade bed, but not as much clutter as the living room. He doesn't hear anything from the living room and decides to poke around a little further into the intimate space of Sherlock Holmes.

There's some calligraphy framed on the wall and a chest of drawers, a curio with some knick knacks, a bust and a few books. He looks around with his hands in his pockets, certain that if he had Sherlock's mind, he would be able to tell everything about the man from the way his sheets were thrown or the dust on his lamp. Instead, he just sees a comfortable room filling him with more questions about his new friend. Is this where he does most of his thinking? Does he lie in that bed at night and jump up again with case-changing revelations? What else does he think about there?

With nothing being answered, John turns to leave and finds Sherlock blocking his way, arms crossed and leaning in the doorway. His bathrobe drapes off of him in expensive folds, an object of pure fabric decadence. The detective’s hair only curls further as it dries, rising up in small drifts across his scalp. John smiles.

Sherlock jerks a thumb towards the second door adjacent to the one he's filling.

“If you're done invading my privacy, there are towels in there.”

“Thank you.”

The room is a tiny loo with a cupboard and fresh towels inside. John grabs two and heads back out to find Sherlock gone. He is lying on the couch again, plucking at his bathrobe with his feet curled underneath him. John passes him one of the towels and begins to run one over his own hair.

“Did you remember we had an appointment today?”

Sherlock says nothing, so John pushes a chair in front of the low coffee table between them and drops into it, towel around his neck. He waits for Sherlock to begin.

John is very good at waiting. He takes out his pocket watch to ensure no water damage, not looking at the fidgeting man. More than ten minutes go by before Sherlock breathes out heavily and stops running his fingers over the seams of his robe.

“You're here. Assess me and be done with it.”

“That's not a very appreciative way to speak to your doctor.”

“Being my doctor has nothing to do with it. You're only checking up on me because Mycroft requested it and I hate doing anything he asks of me. So begin and _be done with it_.”

Sherlock's teeth snap on the 'tee' at the end of his sentence and the doctor widens his eyes. Leaning forward, he clasps his hands in front of him, elbows on knees, mouth tight with annoyance.

“That's an even worse way to speak to a friend. Are you feeling all right? You seem more snippy than usual.”

“Than _usual_?”

John sighs as Sherlock stomps to the far window, sulking like a child while he throws things about to pull out his violin. He plays an awful racket while John turns the chair and tries to look around the room to gather what's put Sherlock in such a poor mood.

He studies the man himself first, looking for any physical signs of distress. Sherlock is still far too skinny, but he doesn't look like he's fallen off the wagon. The health restored by the country – and John privately thinks it's from his own company as well – is still in his cheeks.

Turning to the desk next: papers and open books litter the surface, but it doesn't look significantly different from the last time John was in the flat. All the strangely organized newspaper clippings are gone, stacked on a bookshelf. The only thing different is a sheaf of letters, tossed about like Sherlock was throwing them over his shoulder as he sat at the desk. John's gaze trails to the fireplace, where remnants of envelopes are balled up and were thrown with haste.

He takes a quick look at the coat rack to confirm his own theory and clears his throat, quite pleased with himself. After another louder noise, Sherlock finally jerks the bow away from his instrument and speaks through his teeth.

“What?”

John crosses his arms, leaning back in the chair.

“You haven't been out today.”

Sherlock's irritation turns smug and he swings the bow to point at the doctor.

“Tell me why you think so.”

“Your shoes.”

“But I'm not wearing any.”

John huffs and stands up, ignoring the not-quite-so-innocent look on the detective’s face. He goes to stand next to the coat rack, pointing at Sherlock's immaculate shoes.

“No mud. It's been raining all day; you would have kicked up at least a little bit of mud if you went anywhere.”

Sherlock finally grins, tapping the bow against his shoulder with the violin slack at his side.

“What else?”

John brushes his fingers under the collar of Sherlock's summer coat. He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers.

“Dry. You would have turned your collar up against the rain, as it was blowing very hard for most of the day. This is made out of a heavy material, wool – it would still be drying if you went out today.”

The detective has already put away his violin and is grinning outright at John. He can't help but grin back.

“Oh you have been paying attention, John. Is there anything else?”

On a roll, John walks to the desk and picks up some of the letters from the floor.

  
“You've been at these all day. These are letters dated from weeks ago, so you've been going through your post, growing more frustrated, if the envelopes in the grate are anything to go by.”

He stacks the letters neatly on the edge of the desk and sits back down, wearing a pleased smile.

“And there I found you, in the middle of a strop, so irritated you let the rain in.”

Sherlock studies him quietly, the corners of his eyes creased in amusement.

“A sound theory, John. You've done very well at using my methods to gather information.”

John's self-satisfaction radiates a little brighter.

“Of course, you're completely wrong, but it was an admirable effort nonetheless.”

His smugness vanishes and he leans forward.

“What?”

Sherlock waltzes towards him again and sprawls back on the couch, happy to steal John's thunder. The doctor turns his chair again to hear him out.

“I didn't use my summer coat today, I went without. I'm surprised you missed my wet shirt hanging in the bathroom. As for my shoes, they cost me a fortune. I cleaned them as soon as I returned home. The muddied towel was right next to the clean one you grabbed to dry the windowsill.”

John frowns, casting around for a saving fact.

“What about the letters?”  
  
“You were only off on your timing with that. I have been going through letters from clients, but each one is more idiotic than the last.”

Sherlock throws up his hands in frustration at the end and folds back into the couch to brood. John tries to piece together the scene in his head. He speaks his process out loud to help himself think.

“You … went out without your coat, so you left in a hurry, agitated enough to forget it on a day like today. If you went out while it was raining, that started around ten this morning and hasn't stopped since. Your hair is damp, but not soaked like it would have been going out in the full on rain, so you got home a few hours ago, long enough for your hair to dry. But you were in a black mood when I arrived, so you must have received some bad news while you were out. Something to do with your cases, if I were to guess, as you were fixated on these earlier and you would have sought a solution to them.”

John had been looking around the room again as he theorized but turns back to Sherlock now, who is staring at him with a mixture of suspicion, pride and awe. John blinks back at him, not sure how to respond.

“Never guess. It's unprofessional.”  
  
Despite his words, Sherlock's expression doesn't change and he watches John for a moment more, mystified, before explaining.

“I went to Scotland Yard.”

“Oh?”

“I'm not allowed any new cases.”

It sounds like Sherlock is stopping bile at the thought. John sees the helpless anger swallowing up the detective. He's back in his proper setting, eager to sharpen his teeth on what he does best after so many days of unwanted rest and to be denied the opportunity? No wonder he was in a bad mood. A light goes on for John.

“Your brother. He's forbidden it.”

Sherlock snarls, his name not worthy of being said. Tension hangs heavy above them and John dispels it by clapping his hands on the arms of the chair.

“I'm starved. Where's this restaurant you wanted to go to?”

“It's raining.”

“It's barely drizzling. Get up.”

John hides his surprise that Sherlock actually listens to him and goes to rummage about in his room for a moment. The doctor heads to the door, shaking his head at his coat and shivering when he slides the wet material back on. He shifts his shoulders before yelping as Sherlock grabs the scruff of his coat.

“Off. Weren't you the one scolding me about summer colds?”

John turns and Sherlock shoves some dry clothes into his arms. The doctor looks at them blankly until Sherlock loses his patience. He starts shoving him towards Sherlock's bedroom.

“Get dressed! You can't enjoy dinner with your clothes wet.”

John dutifully goes to Sherlock's bedroom and closes the door behind him, laying his bundle on the bed. He removes his waistcoat, thumbs his braces off his shoulders and undoes his shirt, slipping it off and holding it for a moment, not sure what to do with it. He decides to hang it up next to Sherlock's in the bathroom and returns to the bed to quickly finish dressing.

Holding the shirt in his hands, he hesitates. Knowing Sherlock... he lifts it to his face and sniffs, testing for any mysterious bad odors, but is met with a pleasant warm scent, clean linen and vaguely spicy. He lingers in the smell for a moment, wondering who does Sherlock's laundry before shrugging and pulling the shirt on.

The shirt is overly large, but soft. He has to roll the cuffs slightly to make it fit properly and he tucks the tails into his own trousers. The waistcoat is almost too tight across his broader chest. The jacket he lifts is light for summer and still a bit big, but he doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth. His mood improves with the dry clothes as he exits the bedroom. He smiles at Sherlock as the coat settles on his shoulders.

The detective is swinging an umbrella and taps it against the door frame impatiently. He gives John a once over, lingering on the swoop of his collar that exposes the base of his neck, the shirt too big to stay snug. John tugs on his sleeves but has no time to grow uncomfortable as Sherlock is already leaping down the stairs. He calls after him.

“Is this going to become a habit, Mr. Holmes? You're quite fond of leaving me behind.”

“It's only because I know you'll follow.”

John stops short at the base of the stairs to find Sherlock standing on the front stoop of 221B, umbrella already open and shielding him from rain, a soft flat cap tucked over his curls. He narrows his eyes, but doesn't comment on what Sherlock said.

“Don't you have another umbrella? Or did you give me these clothes just to give them a good washing in the weather?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shifts over, leaving space under the large canopy for John to stand next to him. John hesitates, weighing the cons of getting wet again with squeezing under the umbrella. He decides when a crack of thunder strikes and the rain pummels harder against the world. Pushing himself against Sherlock's side, he closes the door behind him and tugs Sherlock back as he tries to leave.

“Lock your door! Anyone could walk in. _I_ walked in without even knocking.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock starts going through his pockets, of which there are far more than sensible to have on one person. He starts with his coat, the ones on the inside yielding paper and string, a pocket knife and a glass eye in another. Sherlock juggles the search with the toppling umbrella and a shock of cold rain hits the back of John's neck and head. He shoves himself further into Sherlock to avoid the weather without a thought.

The detective straightens the canopy and digs through his waistcoat pockets.

“If you're just going to stand there, you can help me. Look in my trouser pockets.”

John mutters about having sensible clothes, but does as he's asked, not feeling the least bit awkward until his fingers are already brushing the inside of Sherlock's trousers. The material is unexpected – a thin satin material not good for pockets at all – but it feels wonderful and John is struck with what a tactile person Sherlock must be. After the bathrobe and now this, he probably derives pleasure from the simple act of sticking his hands in his pockets.

He realizes he's essentially been stroking Sherlock's upper thigh for too long a period to be an accident, surely the world's most observant man has noticed by now. His fingers brush metal at the bottom of the pocket and he wraps his fingers around it, jerking his hand free. He's pressed close against Sherlock's chest and pushes back to give himself some space, flustered.

“Here – I have it here. Here it is.”

He turns to lock the door and Sherlock leans over with him, keeping the rain in check. It only serves to press his front against John's back when the doctor stands and for a brief, electrifying second, they are fully aligned together. John's backside is snug against Sherlock's hips, shoulder blades pressed to his chest, their breath stopped. It lasts for less than a second before Sherlock is turning, leading them away from his doorstep.

“Come along, John.”

John, too stunned to argue, pulls himself along with the detective, avoiding the rain by pressing himself against Sherlock's side. Their arms hit awkwardly, not coordinated, until John grunts and arranges his arm through Sherlock's. They might look a little old fashioned walking as such, but it was more convenient to do so.

John curls his fingers around Sherlock's forearm purely for convenience as they avoid puddles and talk softly under the patter of rain overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer - I write deductions about as well as John solves them. In other words, they're not my strong suit, but I tried! Thanks for your continued support!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of wartime and brief descriptions of violence/wounds.

Sherlock takes John to a restaurant down an alley that serves food from China. It's stuffy and small, buzzing with people chattering in a language John can't understand. The detective orders food for the both of them in stilted Mandarin, much to the amusement of the waiter, then settles back in his chair to watch John.

After a stretch of silence, John narrows his eyes at him.

“What?”

Sherlock chuckles and gestures at the room.

“You don't have to look so wary, doctor. They're not going to cook and eat _you_.”

John looks away from the table near them where an elderly man eats squishy brown eggs that ooze thick green when he chomps into them. He shudders and prays that's not what Sherlock ordered for their own meal.

“They're certainly not going to cook you. Not enough meat on your bones for a plateful.”

John laughs at Sherlock's indignation and folds his arms on the table, pushing his sleeves further up. After a good show of sulking, Sherlock starts talking about the authenticity of the place, the process of making the “century eggs” the man is eating, and the history of Mandarin cuisine. John listens, amazed at the depth of knowledge Sherlock has on the unexpected topic.

“Have you been to China then?”

Sherlock clears their table as their waiter returns, bearing shallow dishes with sauces and two large bowls of thick noodles, steaming with vegetables and what looks like beef mixed in. John's stomach rumbles as the smell hits him.

“Yes, Beijing. It was that jewel theft case I told you about.”

John looks around the table for silverware, distracted.

“You never told me that was in China! Where is the cutlery?"

Sherlock pulls two slim wooden sticks from a cup on the table and tucks them into his fingers, expertly plucking noodles from his bowl. He grins at John's gobsmacked expression.

“I never said it was in China because it wasn't important.”  
  
“That is important. That's the setting! It makes all the difference. How are you eating with those?”  
  
“All the difference for what? Here, hold them like you would a pencil, like this.”

Sherlock hands John two of the sticks and folds his fingers into the correct position. John does as he's told while answering.

“All the difference for telling the story.”  
  
“No, hold them like this! Now do a pincer motion, yes. Try picking up some meat first. I wasn't telling you a _story_ , that's childish. I was restating facts.”

John pauses, fumbling the chopsticks before Sherlock reaches over and corrects him. The pads of his fingers are warm and the brush of them as he pulls back shocks John enough that he seeks a similar reaction from the detective. Sherlock remains cool and unaffected to his eyes and a thin stripe of shame and doubt settles in his thoughts while he tries to focus on answering.

“It would have helped with my imagination then.”

He attempts the vegetables first, pinching the sticks together and frowning when the onion slips through his grip. Smug amusement radiates from Sherlock and John finds that stubborn streak in himself that won't let him just flag down the waiter and ask for a fork. This is England – they surely have a fork somewhere in the building. Sherlock speaks again while the doctor contemplates just stabbing the vegetables through and eating like a barbarian.

“To assist your imagination means you are recalling my cases. Why?”

John doesn't answer. He suddenly feels shy about his writings, scribbled so hastily and without all the facts. Best let Sherlock draw his own conclusions rather than John further embarrassing himself.

Sherlock must note his discomfort and of course, hounds after the subject relentlessly.

“You're recalling them, therefore you're looking to retell my cases. To whom? Yourself? You would just fill in your own details if you were just remembering without purpose. No, you wouldn't need to recall the facts so vividly unless you were talking to an audience and wanted to get things right.”

John manages a piece of beef and grimaces a nervous, happy smile. He's proud of finally picking something up, but his stomach coils in knots at what Sherlock might say next.

“You're writing down my cases.”

John chews and nods, watching the old man next to them.

“Don't.”

He glances back at Sherlock for a second and then back to his bowl, placing the chopsticks on the table.

“Yes, of course.”

They sit in a weird silence, Sherlock finally eating a few bites, until John picks up his chopsticks with determination and tries again.

“Right. Why not?”

“They're of no interest to anyone.”

“They're of interest to me. They were brilliant stories, Sherlock. You're –”

John stops himself from sounding foolish. He reconsiders.

“I think people would want to hear about them.”

Convincing Sherlock is exactly as difficult as John imagined it being.

“You wouldn't be able to write them properly.”

John hides his cringe in an enthusiastic bite of food. He knows Sherlock caught it anyway when he waves a few careless fingers and sighs.

“No, no, John. You misunderstand. I'm sure your writing skills are competent enough by medical standards. But you cannot have all the facts correct as you weren't there.”

“That's what I have you for, isn't it? You're a walking encyclopedia.”

John smiles and points with his chopsticks.

“Finish your food.”

Sherlock gestures rudely, but he manages to make even that look posh. John snorts and they finish their food.

The detective pays for their meal, shrugging off John's protests, and they head towards the door. Sherlock walks with umbrella like a cane, as the rain quit during their dinner. He picks up the conversation as if they had never stopped.

“I'm a 'walking encyclopedia', as you say. But you still wouldn't have the first hand account required for a full retelling.”

John sighs, really ready for Sherlock to drop the topic.

“That just means you'll have to write about the cases you work on with me.”

He turns to look at the tall man, who is watching the cars pass them on the street as they walk. The grin spreads on John's face and he slips his hands into his pockets, catching up with the detective and strolling in companionable silence.

oOo

“How about this one? 'Mr. Holmes: three days ago, the scullery maid was caught with a human bone in the kitchen with –”

“Dull. They weren't human bones, they're cow bones. Next.”

John jots down on a notepad at his side, a long list of answers to Sherlock's pile of mail and requests. They had gone through a stack of them as soon as they got back to Baker Street. The pile is full of hopeless cases, desperate pleas, scandalous affairs and all of them crying or whispering or begging for Sherlock Holmes to help them.

When they arrived back, Sherlock wouldn't sit still long enough for John to give him a physical, citing it as 'tedious', his favorite word, John suspects. Instead, the doctor saw that boredom creeping in again and snatched up the pile of forgotten letters on Sherlock's desk and tucked himself into a corner of the couch. Before opening them, John had a vague idea of what Sherlock's job was actually like – solving little crimes here and there, but supporting himself with money from his Lordly brother. But after reading through fifteen letters from across the continent, praising Sherlock in so many ways he was sure they had exhausted the English language, he began to reconsider his mental image of the man.

Said man paces the length of his living room, back and forth in front of the hearth until John's sure he's going to wear a hole in the hardwood. John knew that Sherlock was a genius, but it appears many other people thought so as well. He hadn't pressed the detective about the lengths of his skills, though maybe he shouldn't have assumed that the exotic cases Sherlock told him about were all discreetly handed over from his brother for his troubled, rich colleagues. It seemed Sherlock was doing just fine on his own.

“This one is from Miss Flaversham. Her father was abducted from their toy shop in London last –”

“Ridiculous. Put it in the Met pile.”

John drops his hands in his lap, exasperated.

“You don't even let me finish reading them out. Have you already read these?”

“They're obvious and boring.”

Sherlock swoops to the window, pulling his tobacco out of his trouser pocket and rolling his fifth cigarette since they've been back. John watches his long fingers, the swipe of his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper and the hiss of the match struck against the window ledge, scratched from a million matches before. Sherlock's cheeks hollow and he pushes the smoke through his nose, trailing out the window into the hot night.

Paper crinkles and John looks down at his hand to see his fist closing tighter around Miss Flaversham's letter. Alarmed, he releases the letter and shuffles the different piles on the couch and around his feet, yawning. He clears off enough space for him to fold his arms and swing his bare feet up onto the cushions, content to doze for a moment while he waits for Sherlock to get impatient enough to demand another letter.

The persistent, pleasant ticking of Sherlock's clock soothes him into a deeper nap than he wanted and he wakes sometime later to Sherlock perched on the end of the couch near his feet. He startles and unfolds his arms, disoriented, and scrubs at his eye.

“Mm, what time is it?”

“Five past three.”

John's stomach drops.

  
“What? Sherlock, why didn't you wake me?!”

Sherlock shrugs.

  
“You fell asleep at 12:30, too late for you to get a cab anyway.”

Had it really been that late? John shifts to get up, glancing around absently for his shoes. It was going to be a long walk home.

“Don't be ridiculous. You'll stay here tonight.”

John flushes and sits up fully.

“I can't possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“It's not. You can't. I'll be –”

“You're not even in a state to make a full sentence. Come, my bedroom is right here.”

Sherlock hops off the arm and wraps his fingers around John's wrist, tugging him to his feet. John curls his toes and gasps, digging in and not budging. The detective tugs on him again, turning back with an irritated look.

“What are you doing? You're tired – it's right there and more comfortable than the couch.”

“Sherlock, I'm not going to sleep in your bed.”

His face turns agitated then clears in understanding.

“Oh, I don't experiment on anything in the bedroom. It's perfectly safe.”

John sways, light-headed with embarrassment and Sherlock pulls him a few halting steps forward. He turns with John's wrist still clasped tightly.

“John!”

“I – I can't.”

“You can't what?”

He steps closer to John, noting the red face and elevated breathing, but John hears the confusion when he speaks.

“You can't sleep?”

John closes his eyes and swallows, opening them again to face Sherlock.

“I can't sleep with you.”

Sherlock drops his wrist like he was burnt, stepping away from John and putting some distance between them. If John didn't know any better, he would say Sherlock looks shocked, his face paler than a few moments ago and his mouth open for a second too long. He collects himself and brushes past John to his perch at the window.

“I wasn't going to sleep. The bed is free for you to use. Alone.”

John listens very carefully to Sherlock's words and as usual with the detective, he tries to pick out the second layer of meaning of what he's really saying. He sounds vaguely embarrassed and shocked at what John suggested, making John feel like the guilty party for even bringing it up. It sounds like Sherlock hadn't even meant for John to interpret the situation that way.

He doesn't feel guilty or embarrassed as much as awkward and upset for Sherlock. Of course the man hadn't meant anything by it. This is John's fault and the confusion rising in him gives him a headache. Why had he interpreted the situation that way? Is that really what he had been expecting? He had reacted poorly, but thinking on the circumstances leads him to imagine Sherlock's bed and how much space Sherlock would take up in it. He would have been able to tuck himself in there easily, as he thinks Sherlock's probably a sprawler and John keeps his limbs pulled in tight during sleep.

Or maybe Sherlock was a cuddler, as he was tactile during the day, surely he would grab a lover and wrap those long limbs around them in the night. John shakes his head, disturbed, and realizes he's been standing in the middle of the living room for too long. Sherlock still has his back to him at the window, spine stiff.

The doctor sighs, reaching for his waistcoat and sliding the buttons loose. Sherlock turns while John's head is down, concentrating.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm undressing. Obvious question again.”

“Yes, yes. Why are you undressing?”  
  
“You told me to stay the night and you're right – I'll not be catching a cab anytime soon.”

“Your clothes.”

“It's much more comfortable to sleep without braces and waistcoat, although I can imagine you sleeping in coattails.”

The last bit is said with an easy grin up at Sherlock as he removes the waistcoat and lays it over the back of the nearby chair. He unhooks his braces in the back and places them there too. He moves towards the couch as he untucks the overly large shirt, which now hangs to mid-thigh. Sherlock makes a quiet, unintelligible noise, but when John looks over his shoulder, lips pursed in question, the detective stalks to the kitchen.

“There's nothing wrong with my bed.”  
  
John sighs and grabs a cushion from one of the armchairs before reclining on the couch.

“I'm sure it's a lovely bed, Sherlock, but I'll sleep just fine right here.”

He hears a huff from the kitchen, but otherwise, just the gentle shuffling of Sherlock moving around. Once again, the ticking clock lulls him back to rest, his thoughts spanning over his day. He hazily focuses on Sherlock's bed again, imagining the way those sheets must feel. They looked luxurious from what John could tell. He drifts off to the metronome of the clock and the comfort of someone else in the room.

oOo

No loud noises alert Sherlock to John's troubled dreaming. He's at the window – cigarette ten – when John's breathing picks up noticeably. He flicks the burning stub to the sidewalk and watches the doctor for a moment, listening closely. Harsh pants through his open mouth begin by the time Sherlock comes to stand over the couch.

He's curled on his side, sweat beading on his creased brow. Sherlock is shocked at how much older John looks in his fear, terror tensing his muscles until he is as small as possible. The detective stays silent, growing tenser with each second that John's distress grows. The panting elevates and John digs his fingernails into his forearm hard enough to draw blood. He twitches and Sherlock settles on the ground next to his face.

Small sounds, gasps and whines in the back of his throat, force through his panicked breath. He whispers a word over and over. Sherlock's curiosity tempers with something new, something he doesn't like. He knows what it is, but giving voice to compassion would only give it a fuller shape, so he bends closer to listen to John only for the sake of new data.

“No. No. No. No. No.”

John's teeth grit harder and he pushes out the negations with great effort as a severe trembling quakes him from bowed head to curled toe. Sherlock watches his nails dig deeper, blood seeping into the fabric of the shirt, before he can't stand it anymore and touches the back of his hand.

“John.”

The blow is so swift and shocking that Sherlock is too stunned to cry out. John backhanded him – hard – and the warmth of the blow spreads through his cheek. The slap increases John's fear and he curls impossibly tighter and looks expectant of a blow himself. Sherlock better prepares himself and is ready when John rears back to strike him again. His voice is firm, demanding to be obeyed.

“John. Wake up.”

Sherlock braces his feet against the edge of the couch to stop John's struggling when he grabs his wrists. John is already strong, but blind terror makes him manic, thrashing until Sherlock throws himself on the couch, sitting on John's legs and leaning his full weight against his wrists. He bellows.

“John!”

The doctor's eyes snap open and he bucks, hooked deep in the dream before Sherlock scoots forward to sit on his stomach. The move holds John's center of gravity until he calms down enough to become aware. Sherlock looks down at him, breathing just as heavily as John, before he slowly unwraps his fingers from John's wrists. John's eyes widen right before his face crushes in despair, eyes sealed tight, tears leaking from the corners. He chokes out a broken whisper that Sherlock barely hears.

“The rats, Sherlock. Everywhere. The blood, the rats, the rain, the rats...!”

He opens his eyes and panic is flooding him.

“Get off me. Get off me!”

He's jostling Sherlock again, but the detective decides he's lucid enough to not hurt himself. Sherlock doesn't normally like to be touched, but he doesn't know what being touched after a terrible nightmare feels like. He trusts John to know what he wants and goes to the kitchen, feeling adrift and confused.

Why is he confused? John had a nightmare about the war. John has shell-shock, which should have resolved itself by now. These are things he knows and understands. But the helplessness is new. John must stop being afraid. But surely John takes care of this himself all the time. Sherlock has never witnessed another man's nightmares, but he doesn't think the act itself is what has him so shaken. He stands in the kitchen and watches John on the couch.

He's sat up and propped his elbows on his knees, face pressed to his palms. The half-rings of blood still stain the forearms of his shirt and it sticks to his back with sweat. John's thoughts must run along the same line as Sherlock's as he scrubs at his face and reaches down to undo a few buttons before pulling the shirt off completely, leaving him in a thin undervest.

Sherlock's mouth goes dry.

John's scar.

He can't see the entire thing from the kitchen, just the shadow of jagged knots below the curve of his shoulder. John throws the shirt over the back of the couch and pulls his feet up, pressing his face to his knees and just breathing. It reminds Sherlock to take a breath and he feels that familiar burn, the one that means he needs to _know_ , he must know about this and nothing else will distract him until he has every detail memorized. His feet try to carry him to the living room without his acknowledgment and he stops himself at the glass doors of the kitchen.

John is in great distress. An unwelcome probing of the cause of his nightmares would likely end in John leaving, maybe never to return. The streets are not safe now, though it's more like the streets are not safe _from_ _John_. He gingerly touches his cheek where it still stings. John can take care of himself with the ruffians of London.

He makes tea instead, as that's what people seem to prefer in these type of situations. He rummages around and purposely makes noise to draw John out of his thoughts before the kettle boils and he brings in one cup of tea. He sets it on the low table before seating himself on the opposite end of the couch with caution.

Sherlock purposely doesn't crane his neck to get a better view of the scar, though it is a close thing. What must it feel like? The wound was infected, did not heal well. It is a bullet wound and John was shot in the back of his shoulder, approximately ten centimeters from the top. John was surely medical in the war, granted amnesty in firefights by both sides. He must have placed himself in an unusual situation to get shot in such a way.

“I'm sorry.”

The apology is quiet and muffled against John's knees.

“There's nothing to apologize for.”

A tiny, incredulous laugh.

“I yelled at you. I smacked you as well – your cheek is still red.”

“You were not aware of yourself. I'm not offended.”

John raises his face, blotchy from crying and squeezes his knees.

“I'm not making a very good impression as the caretaker of your health.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“You're perfectly capable. You weren't examining while you were having a nightmare.”

John shuffles sideways, knees still hugged to his chest, and Sherlock gets a good look at his scar without the interference of shadows. John must notice his staring, but Sherlock can't help it, he _has_ to look.

“You're the first one to see it healed, you know.”

That brings Sherlock back enough to look at John's face with a stab of unfamiliar shame. John isn't looking at him.

“Of course, some medics on the field, then the hospital doctors behind the front lines. The other doctor in my office, he's the only one who's seen it when it was still healing. No one else.”

Why is John telling him this?

“I suppose Greg has seen it in theory. He was there when it happened. If I were a crueler man, I would say it happened because of him.”

Sherlock doesn't make a sound. John continues to focus on the crumpled letters littering the fireplace.

“We were in the Battle of the Somme. 11th Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers in the 54th Brigade, 18th Division. We fought on the east. Three months and 450,000 British casualties from that battle. I cannot fathom it – the number is so... We were a large battalion, but that many men? I was there and I still cannot understand that number. It's been six years and I still can't understand it.”

John pauses and Sherlock waits, astounded that John would want to share this with him.

“Lestrade was my commanding officer, our captain. He was in charge of the entire Battalion. We had been at it a whole week, ducking and shooting and praying. The Huns wanted us dead. Machine gun fire and shells dropping all the time. I swore I was going to be deaf for the rest of my life.”

“There were young men there. Too young. They were half mad by their time in trenches. It was relentless, Sherlock. Mad young men, doing mad, deadly things. They put guns in our arms when some of us hadn't even held a woman in them.”

He licks his lips and closes his eyes.

“There was this lad – Richardson – too bloody ignorant to be there in the first place. He leapt over the parapets, screaming nonsense, determined to die. Just couldn't take it anymore, I suppose. I couldn't entirely blame him.”

Sherlock finds himself scooting closer on the couch, closing the distance between them, drawn closer by John's anguish.

“But Lestrade. 'Oh captain, my captain.'”

John shakes his head.

“He jumped up there right after him. The whistle of incoming shells – we could still hear that. We were supposed to take cover. Richardson though, he had a death wish. If he hadn't of gone mad, he would have been shot as a traitor by our boys for running back into the trenches during an attack.”

“Everyone sensible _did_ take cover, but I was a lieutenant under Lestrade and he was the best man I knew and he was going to die for some other idiot. So many people were already dead, Sherlock. I don't know if I can make you understand. I couldn't let him go, I couldn't let him die. I wasn't going to let him become just one more number in the papers. Maybe I was mad too.”

John's words are wet with tears. Sherlock is close enough that John digs his toes under the detective's thigh.

“He jumped and I followed into No Man's Land. The Alleymen had been mowing our lads down when we got close enough for machinegun fire. There wasn't any gunfire then. Richardson was running, Lestrade was yelling at him. I don't know what possessed him to follow him over the top. I guess he was tired of boys dying.”

“That first shell landed right on top of Richardson's head. He wouldn't have felt a thing. He was just – gone. At the same instant it impacted, I grabbed Lestrade by the collar and fell backwards into a destroyed entrenchment. I was saved from the blast of shrapnel, but I hadn't pulled Lestrade back far enough. His leg was ripped to shreds.”

John shudders when he takes in his next breath, eyes squeezed tight and Sherlock, so entranced by the story, doesn't even notice his body twisting to face him, his own hands resting on John's atop his knees.

“I pulled him close and by some miracle, no artillery hit us in our little spot. Lestrade was barely unconscious, a small mercy for him, but his leg... I didn't think he would walk again. When the bombardment stopped, our boys were supposed to hop over and advance. No one in our branch of the battalion did. I stood and dragged Lestrade towards our trench ladder. It wasn't very far, but the longer I stood, the more of a target I became.”

“The medics couldn't get a stretcher to me. He was a well loved leader and they were shouting at me to bring him in, bring him home. Someone took Lestrade's feet while I crouched and held his shoulders and slid him into the trench to the awaiting help.”

John gasps and stops. He bows his head against their joined hands atop his knees and Sherlock feels the slide of his hot tears along the gaps of their fingers. He finishes quietly for John.

“You straightened and were shot through the shoulder with a high-caliber German sniper rifle. It entered through the back of your left shoulder and exited through the front. You fell forward into your comrades and lost consciousness. The wound was infected due to poor reaction time on the part of your medics. Lestrade's wound was deemed more urgent according to his rank and you were brought to the ambulances behind him.”

“A high fever struck you with the infection and you were insensible for two – no three – days. By the time you came out of it, they had already transferred you far behind enemy lines to be invalided home.”

John nods against their joined hands, pushing his fringe up at an awkward angle.

“You came home, unaware of your shell-shock, but knowing something was wrong. You married the first girl who showed interest in you because you wanted to be normal and it was expected of you to get back to normal.”

John rasps in reply.

“It just wouldn't do to have me staring at my hands for hours on end, or disassembling and reassembling my service gun over and over until my fingers bled. I was a hero. I met Mary at a veteran's ball some fellow servicemen dragged me to. Her father is a lieutenant general, but they were old money before the War.”

“She liked me. I don't know why. I didn't smile much then. But she laughed and held my arm and I tried to dance with her and I thought I could be happy with someone like her, someone who liked to smile, who wanted children and a cottage and a garden.”

He lifts his head and his cheeks and eyes are red and he watches their hands. Sherlock smooths his thumb over the join of John's thumb and forefinger. This wasn't particularly normal, what they were doing, and it wasn't something Sherlock would ever think to do. But the intimacy John was providing felt like a rare gift and Sherlock found he didn't have the desire to break out of their small communion, to point out how uncomfortable he usually was with emotions, or how no one ever talked to him like this. John shouldn't trust him with this.

“Her father said he would disown her if she ran off with me. I was a medical student before the War, at St. Bart's for two years, but I went into the armed forces instead of continuing as a medic. Thought I could be more useful on the front lines and sneak in first aid whenever I could. I was a volunteer. Can you believe that? So many of us were volunteers. “

“She did though. She ran off with me after knowing me for a month and lost every penny of her inheritance. Looking back on it, she probably thought she was becoming a dashing heroine – the lovely woman who rides off penniless into the sunset with the poor, sad soldier, wronged by the world but determined to have true love and mend his broken heart. She always has had a dramatic streak.”

John manages a little smile, but it wavers into bitterness.

“I should have known better. I was a fool.”

“You were sick. You wanted saving.”

“I didn't want saving. I'm the strong soldier, the hero. I'm not supposed to be saved.”

It sounds false to John's own ears.

The pair stare at each other until John comes back to himself after a moment and finally notices their position. He's tucked in the v of Sherlock's long legs, the detective's knees on the outside of John's own. Their hands are tangled between them and John is suddenly, sharply embarrassed.

He pulls his hands away from Sherlock, but the detective doesn't seemed bothered and stands on his own, leaving John to compose himself on the couch. John flattens his fringe, unsettled and unsure of what he just confessed. He hadn't even told Mary the things he'd told Sherlock tonight. They had only known each other a few short weeks and he bared his most intimate story to a man who was possibly mad as a hatter. But John hadn't seen contempt or impatience during his recounting. Sherlock had been an adept listener, attentive in all the right spots and aware when John could not carry on. It was an alarming level of sensitivity that John would never have expected from the man and it would take time for him to process what this would mean for their friendship. Did he just strengthen or ruin the bond between them?

John's head spins with a growing headache and his face is sticky and hot from his tears. He looks over at the clock – nearly 6AM – and leans his head to the side, resting it on the back of the couch, stretching his legs out on the free cushions. They still hold some of Sherlock's body heat.

He feels oddly unburdened, as he had been carrying around that series of events for six years without telling a soul. Even Greg, who was there for part of it and had access to files about the rest, was never told straight from John's mouth what had happened. It was just a soldier thing, understood that they went through something world changing and made it out the other side. When the captain had seen John again, after months and months of recovery, he had thanked him, marking it as the only time they directly spoke about what John had done for him. It was more than enough.

Or so John thought. He felt remarkable after telling these things to Sherlock, like a cleansing had occurred without him really meaning it to. He should feel more ashamed than he does, embarrassed that he pushed this on Sherlock, but he can't help the gratitude that wells up in him for the other man.

When Sherlock returns a few moments later with a wet flannel for John to wipe his face, he lets that gratitude show. He doesn't thank him, but he knows that Sherlock sees it on his face as he gives a tiny shrug to acknowledge him. They don't say anything further. John hops up to start a fresh pot of tea and maybe cook some breakfast for them. Sherlock pulls out his violin and stands in front of the window, waking up London with a concerto to start the day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slang terms explained:  
> Huns/Alleymen - German soldiers  
> parapet - edge of the trench  
> ambulances - designated hospital areas away from the battleground
> 
>  
> 
> The line 'Oh captain, my captain!' is from Walt Whitman's poem of the same name. 
> 
> If you want a little background to go along with John's battle experience, the inspiration for putting him in The Battle of the Somme comes from [this photo](http://greatwarphotos.com/2012/06/27/somme-royal-fusiliers-on-the-somme-1916/).
> 
> I tried to be as historically accurate with this chapter as possible. Some errors might have occurred, but the numbers and battalions are real. 
> 
> Thanks for your continued support & kind messages!
> 
> Also, I was incredibly nervous to post this, but I hope I'm doing these boys some justice. That is all.


	9. Chapter 9

Mary Watson cannot find her house key.

She remembers exactly where she left it. Smoothing back a lock of hair, she walks down the street in her fashionable clothes, a touch too garish in the morning London streets. She wants to take a taxi, but spent her last pound on the ride home. Now this. Her eyes roll and she steps faster.

Pounding on her own front door hadn't helped. John and Eveyln should have been at breakfast, but peering through the dining room windows showed the lights off and the table cleared. She had picked her way out of the bushes, confused. Maybe John had gone into work early. God knows he needed a purpose during the day, though his meager paycheque wasn't bringing home nearly enough.

Or maybe... she slows her walk as she remembers John the other evening, the day she had been _trying_. He had taken a holiday without her and it had stung so much that she couldn't keep quiet about it. He had never taken her on holiday, certainly not the countryside. It had taken her full intention to listen to him, to try and understand why he would do such a thing, but her temper, quicker than lightning, sparked at his answers.

But something sparked in John too. Gone were the sad cow eyes that she hated so much. The _defeated_ look. John had spoken back to her, confronted her, and _he_ was the one to leave the argument that night. Unheard of! Mary clutches her purse tighter and resumes her quick pace. It had been... interesting.

She makes it to the door of the house she stayed in last night. She raises a gloved fist to knock, but it opens beneath her fingers and there stands her most recent one night stand. He looks overly done, nonchalant to a fault. His dressing gown hangs just so, his slippered feet crossed at the ankles while he leans against the door jamb. He hasn't shaved since last night and his morning stubble comes in uneven patches. Mary's not sure what she saw in him at the party last night.

“Good morning, darling. Back again so soon?”

Mary frowns and holds out her palm.

“Give them to me, Totty.”

The man twitches his mustache in irritation.

“It's Potty, darling, don't you remember? You certainly moaned it enough last night.”

Mary draws her shoulders up and scowls.

“I want my house key.”

Potty sighs, face cast dramatically skyward.

“Imagine my surprise when I got up this morning, all set to fix you a swell breakfast, only to find you'd scampered!”

He clutches his heart.

“Gone! Like a thief in the night.”

Mary says nothing and crosses her arms, waiting for the theatrics to end so she could go home. John would never act this way. He wouldn't ever have a mustache like that either. He might be a little shorter than Potty, a little older, but he would never deprive a woman of what was hers and keep her waiting on his doorstep. He was a gentleman, despite all his faults. Potty hadn't even invited her inside.

She startles when he runs a finger down the curve of her cheek.

“But I put it all together. You're just one of those shy dolls in the morning, aren't you? I'm keen on that too. And with a kisser like that, I'd forgive you most anything...”  
  
He trails his finger towards her mouth and Mary snaps her teeth at him.

Potty straightens, angry, and digs in his robe pocket. He pulls out her key, dangles it in her face and chucks it onto the sidewalk with a sneer.

“Fine, get out of here, bitch. Run back home to whatever dog house you crawled out of.”

He slams the door in her face, not before Mary flips him off, and she trots down the few steps to search for her key. The small trinket on the end catches her eye and she bends down to retrieve it. A silver 'W' hangs on the end of her key, a sign of her new name, her new, wretched life. She stares at it until she feels herself being watched.

Mary looks across the street to see a woman around her age glaring in utter disapproval, gripping the bar of a black pram. A stripe of shame slips down her back, but she covers it with indignation. She pulls her shoulders back and glares in return, daring the woman to speak.

A soft coo from the buggy distracts them both and the woman instantly forgets Mary, leaning over the baby and tickling until chubby fingers reach up to wrap around her own. Both mother and child make happy noises, as the woman starts up her walk again, pushing the carriage down the sidewalk and leaving Mary to watch them with her heart in her throat.

She makes it to the park a few blocks away before she sits down on a bench and bursts into tears.

oOo 

“I _told_ you not to get that close to her.”

“She had what we needed.”

“Yes, but was that worth a bloody nose?"  
  
“Of course, John. It was vital evidence.”

“I think your nose would say otherwise. No, no, don't lean backward. Here.”

John carefully tilts Sherlock's head forward and passes off the blood soaked handkerchief for the detective to hold.

“Pinch the bridge of your nose and try not to swallow any blood, you git.”

John shivers and crouches lower behind the bins. Sherlock spits a mouth full of blood on the cobbles and groans distastefully.

“I don't know what I'm going to call this one.”

The detective groans again, but more in irritation.

“It's going to be something terrible.”

“Well, if they're so terrible, I'll stop writing them.”

Sherlock sits at John's back, silent. He shuffles a moment and John smiles.

“I didn't say that.”

This is the fifth case that John has tagged along for. The first had been uneventful, but still fun – finding a dog murderer in south London. Sherlock solved it within the afternoon, but John was delighted to have actually gotten him out of the flat. He wrote about it diligently in his notebook, but the detective never seemed to want to actually read them. He just showed Sherlock the titles and let him mock them, but he grew prouder of his words everyday, his awe of Sherlock's reasoning spilling over each page.

They don't talk about that first night John stayed at 221B, but it hangs between them sometimes. John won't take anything resembling pity from strangers, much less from Sherlock, of whom he grows more fond every day. He doesn't think Sherlock even has pity in him to begin with, at least, not like normal people. They've started going out on cases together and when John watches his features light with revelation, he sees Sherlock's drive as something ruthless and pure, yanking him forwards until he collapses when the string of the case, once pulled taut, snaps in conclusion.

John stays then, too, during the down times. His doctor instincts refuse to leave an exhausted man alone with no food or water or company. It's the easiest thing in the world for him to take a few notes from the tea tin on the kitchen counter and slip off to the market. He brings about phase two of Sherlock's recovery purposely with enticing smells of fresh bread and whatever roast meat he brought back this time. He would call the detective predictable, but he knows as soon as he does, Sherlock will do something terrible just to be contrary. He holds his tongue. He's become rather unpredictable too.

He finds a new spring in his step. On days when John thinks he'll buckle under his boredom, Sherlock comes to collect him from work and they stop for tea and Sherlock remembers some urgent matter and would John like to come along for a little while? He starts to forget about home as much, about sorting his papers and dinners alone and early nights. Each time Sherlock has an 'urgent matter' it either ends with John running or Sherlock needing stitches. He breathes not a word to Sherlock, but it's the most alive he's felt in months. Eventually, the matters are always urgent, Sherlock drops the pretense and he swans into John's empty office to shout 'case!' and they're off.

John carefully doesn't think about the boundaries he's pushing between 'patient' and 'friend'. Sherlock isn't a normal _anything_ , much less a conventional patient. He stops trying to put him in a box and enjoys the time they spend together more and more, while still keeping an eye on his health. Which, if tonight is anything to go by, has been much improved by John's attention.

“They've gone. We can move.”

Sherlock stands. John watches him straighten his collar while he gives his own knees a moment to unfold. They'd done plenty of running today. The sounds of traffic grow louder as they walk towards the end of the alley. John clears his throat.

“How about 'The Blackjack Burglars.' Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

Sherlock stuffs his hands in his jacket and ignores John.

“Or hm, how about 'The Case of the Lost Lady Luck.' I like that one.”

Sherlock waves at a passing cab in irritation.

“It was a gambling ring, John. Not some godawful farce.”

“Yes, but it was an all _female_ gambling ring. Not something you see everyday, certainly. It deserves a snappy title. How about I let you read it and you decide on the name? The stories are about you after all.”

They bundle in the back of rattling cab, and they both brace an arm on the seat space between them as it jerks to a start. Sherlock turns to look out the window.

“I don't have time for _stories_ , John. I'm far too busy.”

“Of course you are.”

He very deliberately doesn't mention the last time he was at 221B, he'd left the journals out on the table, intending to get some work done on them before he went home to dinner. When he came back from the loo, Sherlock was quickly turning away, long legs carrying him to the living room, the notebooks clearly shuffled through.

John smiles. Far too busy for stories indeed.

They stop at a restaurant and get some late night dinner, despite John's complaints about Sherlock's injuries. John's put on a few extra pounds since eating out so often, but so has Sherlock. He won't object about the strain on his wallet either so long as he knows he's helping to keep some meat on the detective's skinny bones. They eat in peace, Sherlock with rings of red in the nostrils of his swollen nose, but otherwise famished. John asks for some ice to take with him and wraps it in his handkerchief before handing it off to Sherlock outside.

The detective holds it to his face and turns on his heel.

“Let's go home, John.”

He walks off and it takes him a few moments to realize that there are no matching footsteps in his stride. He turns back to the doctor in front of the restaurant. John looks very small for a moment and Sherlock stays where he is, watching.

Home.

The word confuses John all of a sudden. His house is in the opposite direction from this restaurant. This is where he and Sherlock part ways. He knows he can make a decision right here about how the rest of his evening will go. There's no reason for this to feel like such a monumental choice, but John stays frozen to the sidewalk, mind racing. His house lies one way, but his _home_... His own house doesn't feel like a home. It's become a place where he sleeps, just like it has for Mary. It doesn't make him feel warm like 221B does. It lacks the coziness of two chairs, two mugs of tea on the table between them, easy conversation and perfect quiet. Peace.

He looks up at Sherlock standing a few feet away.

The detective steps closer, uncharacteristically quiet. John looks him over; his handkerchief drips sluggish drops of water to the sidewalk, that fine nose still swollen and angry red. Little bits of rubbish hide in Sherlock's curls, leftover from the bins they hid behind. John reaches up without thinking to brush them away and studies Sherlock's face as his hand falls down. They watch each other closely, the scared doctor and the quiet detective. John's hand hovers between them, paused in indecision like his brain.

Sherlock, eyes still locked with John's, reaches up to encircle John's wrist, slow and careful. His fingers are warm against John's pulse point and the contact soothes him more than he thinks it has any right to.

“John.”

John makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, almost a question.

“Mm?”

“Let's go home.”

John's lips part and he knows he's shaking, knows that Sherlock can feel it. A thick knot forms in his throat and he can't swallow around it, eyes searching Sherlock's face for any hint of this being a joke, or a trick. Sherlock remains solemn and silent, letting John reach a choice on his own.

John puffs out his cheeks and releases a heavy breath, nodding.

“Yeah. Let's go home.”

Sherlock drops his wrist and gives the doctor the tiniest smile he's ever seen, but a genuine one. They turn and begin to walk towards Baker Street. Sherlock ruins the moment a few steps later.

“Of course, I need someone there to make tea.”

John barks a laugh and smacks the detective on the arm.

“Your tea is acceptable, John. I don't allow just anyone to make it for me.”

“Acceptable is it? I'd like to meet the person who makes a better cuppa.”

“You already have. Mrs. Hudson.”

John purses his lips and nods consideringly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“We'll need to have a competition. I can't lose my title of best tea in in the kingdom to an old lady, no matter how sweet she is. You'll just have to sit through innumerable cups of tea until we're both satisfied on which one is truly better.”

“A tea competition. Really, John.”

They look at each other seriously for a moment before breaking into giggles, Sherlock's deep laughter making the hair stand up on the back of John's neck as they round the corner towards home.

 

oOo 

John's been up since dawn.

He's barely gotten three hours of rest, but sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. A series of kidnappings on the harbor had seen him and Sherlock staking out a deck on the port, clothed in smelly port disguises and smears of grease across their faces. 'Blending in,' Sherlock had called it. John just felt giddy and like he'd stepped into the pages of his childhood adventure novels.

Sherlock left irritable as their lead came to nothing and John went back to his house to bathe and pass out for a few hours, his heart still beating too fast. His doctor's mind edges around the word _addicted_ , but doesn't explore it any further.

John stands before his desk in his bedroom, a stack of notebooks on the surface. He drums his fingers atop them, rubbing his top lip, over and over. His mind wanders.

He's known Sherlock for three months now. He's filled up twelve journals with cases they've been on, or with second-hand cases, despite Sherlock's protests. No one else has read them yet, besides Sherlock's sneaky glances every now and then. But he knows there's too much work going into these for them lie still, Sherlock's brilliance modestly tucked away on his shelves forever.

He puts the problem aside for later and gets dressed to go down to breakfast.

Mary sits at the table again. Another on day. She's awake, aware, and looks ready to speak stilted small talk, if John's any judge. He thanks Evelyn for the paper and settles down to the tension split table.

“Good morning, John.”

John shuffles the papers a bit.

“Good morning.”

They sit in awkward silence, John's eyes not even moving over the paper clutched in his fingers. Mary sips her coffee to fill the moment and observes John. She's not sure why she's making the effort right now. Maybe it's because John looks... better. He has a bit of color in his cheeks, a kick to his step that she hasn't seen in a long time. He's let his hair grow just the tiniest bit shaggy and there's a focus to him that erases that haunted look he's carried for years. She clears her throat and tries again.

“You look handsome today.”

The paper crumples in John's surprised grip.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said you look... handsome.”

He squints at her, wary and confused.

“What are you getting at?”

Mary's heart dips without warning. She thinks about the woman and her baby and Potty and all the other men she's had that have never treated her like John has. Loyal John. Boring John.

But John is changing and Mary notices. She can't quite place her finger on what it is and she has no idea why he's changing, but it's not because of something she's doing and that's not acceptable. She needs to ask in a roundabout way to find out what's happening her husband. She ignores the fact that two months ago, she didn't much care for her husband at all anymore.

“Am I not allowed to compliment you?”  
  
John still looks suspicious and frowns deeply.

“You may. Thank you.”

Mary waits for a returning compliment, but none is forthcoming. She opens her mouth, determined not to start a fight, but itching to do so. A knock on the front door startles them both. They turn to watch Evelyn walk past the dining room and towards the entryway.

A quiet conversation takes place, one a deep murmur and John suddenly straightens in his chair, folding the paper and eyes shooting to Mary, filled with nerves. Mary frowns and folds her napkin onto the table, anticipating getting up to see to whoever's at the door. Something is wrong with John.

Before either of them can make a move, Evelyn cries out and heavy footsteps come down the hall. Mary watches John tense in his seat right before a man enters who she's never seen before.

He strikes a dramatic figure, elegant suit of dark blue with a green waistcoat. He looks expensive, if his shoes are anything to go by, and Mary knows how to tell if a man is faking the money or not. She's giving his outfit a once over before coming to his face, startled to realize he's been watching her too. His clear eyes unnerve her and she looks to John, who has stood.

“Sherlock, what is it? What's happened?”

Sherlock immediately dismisses Mary and it's like she's not even in the room anymore. He walks to John's side and begins speaking.

“It's the harbor kidnappings, John. There's been a new one and I need you immediately, before the police get involved. I have a cab waiting outside and...”

Mary stops listening, entranced by the change coming over her husband. John shoots nervous glances to her for the first few seconds of Sherlock speaking, but as the other man continues, John slowly only has eyes for him. He stops noticing Mary at all and watches Sherlock speak, nodding in deep concentration, his shoulders already losing their tension from the breakfast table.

He looks younger, focused, clear-headed, not like Mary's ever seen him before. Dread fills her gut as she watches his body angle towards the other man, subconsciously shutting her out. Her eyes train on Sherlock, who watches John with warmth, despite the seriousness of his features. John nods, Sherlock stops talking, and she comes back to the moment.

“Let me just grab my watch and we can go. Two seconds.”

John dashes out of the room, up the stairs to their bedroom. His bedroom really.

Mary and Sherlock stand across from each other in total silence. Sherlock studies John's place at the table before slowly sliding his gaze up to her face, turning his body in a lazy rotation to face her, utterly disinterested. His eyes flick from her wrists to her neck to her hair and Mary feels flayed, the complete contempt radiating off this man in waves without him saying a word or shifting his features.

She feels a sneer waiting right behind her lips. This man is setting off every alarm bell she has.

_Interloper._

His smirk infuriates her as John's footsteps jog down the flight of stairs, lighter than they have any right to be.

“Let's go, Sherlock.”

He sounds breathless. Happy.

Mary's dread grows.

Sherlock makes sure to walk past her at his full height, posh nose turned up and flaunting his influence over her husband. She snaps.

“John, don't you have to go to the practice?”

John steps back out from the hallway where he was pulling on his jacket. He looks at his feet while he shifts it onto his shoulders.

“They'll understand. It's important.”

He looks up to Sherlock and Mary hears what he's really saying.

_He's important_.

“I'll explain it to you later. We'll talk over dinner.”

She doubts it.

Sherlock's smirk disappears as he reaches John and they turn towards the front door. Neither of them pay her the courtesy of thought to look back, already turning towards their work.

The door slams after them.

Mary drops into her seat, breakfast and coffee gone cold like her skin. She drags her fingers through her hair and lets herself despair for just a moment. What's going on? John didn't even look like himself anymore. That man was definitely the reason for the change coming over him. The tiny things she had been noticing about him at breakfast expanded tenfold as soon as he realized who was at the door – the warmth, the attention, the life.

Because of _him_.

She grips her hair tighter.

They'd been married to misery for years and now some stranger swooped into John's life and the equation wasn't equal anymore. Mary was the one left unsatisfied when it had been the two of them before, wallowing and not speaking after years of conflict. She had tried to make her own happiness after John didn't give her anything back, but now...

She gulps her coffee and drops the cup, splintering the saucer beneath it. Her chair scrapes the floor when she pushes back and pauses, surveying the disturbed table – John's chair shoved pulled backwards in haste, his breakfast gone cold and forgotten. She stands and gathers up her broken dish, leaving the table behind.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with me. I've finally graduated & S3 lit a new fire under me to get this finished. Thanks to the flawless, impeccable Chelsea for her help with this chapter. More to come soon!


	10. Chapter 10

Evelyn cleans Dr. Watson's room once a week.

She opens the windows, airs everything out, launders his linens, and remakes the bed. She tidies his desk, though she doesn't have to do much there. Dr. Watson is particularly neat, left over from his army days, she supposes.

It's not her place to wonder, but she thinks he wasn't always this way – sleeping alone, quiet and reserved, drawn tight like a bow. Many men changed after the war, but she didn't know the doctor before. She was hired by the couple soon after they were married, by the missus. She's never pried, but Evelyn knows the signs of a happy marriage and while the Watsons weren't the most outgoing people she'd ever seen, they were at least happy in the beginning.

She gets on her hands and knees to clean out underneath his bed. She finds a stack of leather-bound notebooks, neatly tied and not quite hidden. Pulling them out, the leather feels nicer than she thought it would, almost to the point of extravagance. These must have been expensive and she lays a hand on top of them reverently. Surely the doctor didn't mean to leave them under there in the dust and dirt.

Dr. Watson never really laughed, but he wasn't always so weighed down in the time she's worked under his roof. Mrs. Watson wasn't always so mean-spirited either. She keeps secrets, but there are plenty of secrets Evelyn keeps too – secrets that keep their marriage together, she reckons.

Coming back to herself, she tucks her knees and stands, walking to his desk and placing the stack in the middle. Wiping them down leaves the leather with a slight sheen, inviting and warm, waiting for words. She reaches out to arrange his pen next to it and smiles, hoping Dr. Watson will be pleased by the arrangement. Maybe if he could get some of his frustrations out on paper, he'd be a little happier.

Although he had seemed quite happy the other day when that man came over for breakfast. Evelyn was terrified that she was going to get a talking to after she couldn't keep out the intruder, but as soon as he swept past her and saw the doctor's face, she pulled out of the way, back to the wall, waiting until she was needed.

They rushed by her without even seeing (the sign of good help, she thought), which meant the doctor definitely didn't expect her to see his beatific grin at something the tall man said right before the door closed behind them. He was a changed man in those few seconds of sunshine. It took the crack of Mrs. Watson's dish to bring her back to herself and she slipped into the room to clean whatever mess she'd made.

Finding the dish gone, she watched the kitchen door swing close, surprised. Changes were coming to the Watson household and Evelyn wasn't sure if it was for better or worse. Til death do they part.

She gathers her cleaning supplies and quietly closes Dr. Watson's door, getting on with the rest of her chores.

oOo

Sherlock stands outside of a doctor's office. A gold placard hangs next to the entry way, declaring the name of the physician. A smaller sign is attached to the bottom, added later and impermanent. 'Dr. John Watson.'

He watches people come and go from the office, sees them pass the window on the second floor that holds John's livelihood. Sherlock isn't really sure how he ended up here or why he hasn't gone inside to fetch John. There isn't a case on, it's not time for his weekly appointment, and there's no reason for him to stand outside and just watch. He was on his way to get more chemical supplies and his feet brought him here instead. It feels like he's waiting for something, but Sherlock Holmes is not a patient man and he grows frustrated with himself for not knowing the reason.

He decides not to go inside.

When John comes over later, Sherlock doesn't tell him the truth when John asks about his day. It makes him uncomfortable to think of John's reaction if he knew where he'd spent his afternoon. But why? He studies him quietly making tea, completely at ease in Sherlock's kitchen. It's a familiar feeling, watching John, and that in itself unsettles him all over again. Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to the kettle boiling and tries to distance himself so that he can analyze what's happening.

He conjures John in his mental eye and studies him there instead, makes him stand still. John smiles pleasantly while Sherlock walks around him. A scientist tests and observes. This John sounds very amused.

“What are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer as he traces a seam at John's shoulder. He should measure the reality. He knows the approximate breadth, but... he spreads his fingers wide as he stands behind John and compares the width of his hands against John's steady shoulders. He can feel the doctor relax beneath his touch, a sigh dropping his posture lower. Curious.

Sherlock slowly brushes one hand upward, to smooth the hair at the nape of John's neck. He'd been letting it grow a little longer from the strict army cut in the few months Sherlock had known him. He could measure that too, break John down into understandable parts.

John tilts his head to the side and back, watching Sherlock. He gives him a small smile.

“What am I, Sherlock?”

Sherlock thinks about the night John spent on his couch, the one they don't talk about, and how it felt to share a secret with someone that wasn't used for leverage, or blackmail, or gaining information. It was a gift to him from John and he carried it around in his chest and protected it, protected John. It made him feel stronger to guard the doctor, who still looked so sad but Sherlock damned himself for not being able to completely figure out why.

He understood the mechanics of wars and wives and wounds. But how could those things have been so terrible if they had brought John to him?

He backs away from him. John is too much to parse and examine. He's something Sherlock's never studied before – a new creature. The familiar, insatiable tug of a new mystery tightens in his stomach.

“Sherlock, your tea.”

He blinks his eyes open and the flesh-and-blood John stands before him, holding out Sherlock's cup and saucer. He wants to stand behind this John, repeat the process from his mind, because how could his mental image ever compare to the warm presence before him? Sherlock tenses at John's quiet laugh.

“Did I frighten you? I don't know where you go when you leave, but it must be far away.”

He sets Sherlock's cup beside him on the table and takes the seat across from him, content to be silent and drink his tea. He looks at the empty hearth.

“It's not so far.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

His mind had always been a place of solitude when he needed to retreat, a fortress unlike any other. It rattles him to find that he doesn't want to go there now, that there is peace between him and John unlike anything he's ever experienced. He looks back at his friend, the sweep of his hair, the soft ticking of the clock and the warm smell of summer and tea all melding together to make Sherlock feel... happy.

He wants to recoil from the word – happiness has been a stranger to him, all his life. Why would it visit him now in the most unlikely of packages? It makes him tentative and wary. But this is _John._

Sherlock makes himself look into John's bemused face and locks away his trepidation. This needed further examination.

“Another time. A case came this morning.”

John lets the moment pass and soon they're leaning forward in their seats, talking late into the quiet hours of the night.

oOo

The girl next to Mary has been talking for an hour straight about absolutely nothing. She doesn't feel bad that she tuned her out fifteen minutes in and got lost in her own thoughts. There is irritation at herself for not having a good time tonight. Tonight was supposed to be about her, but all she could think about was John. She swirls the tiny straw in her cocktail and nods in agreement with whatever the girl said.

It was an unusual feeling. Most of the time when she went out, her husband wasn't the last thing on her mind, but he certainly wasn't the first. She would think of him every time she was asked to dance, but as soon as she was on the floor, it was about how _she_ felt, not about her husband at all.

There's a man across the room making eyes at her. She likes this part, the beginning of the game. Sipping her drink and looking shy comes naturally now. She remembers the first time she did this, the slick palms and the absolute rush she got from doing something so wrong that felt wonderful. She had always had attention, but this was something different.

He makes his way over to her, dodging through the dance floor crowd and swiping an extra champagne from a passing tray. He's got the thin mustache of the trendy and the shoes of the wealthy. She quickly judges that he can afford to buy her drinks all evening so she scoots over to make room for him on their booth bench.

“Hey, doll. You got any plans for tonight?”

His breath smells like top shelf scotch when he leans into her space. Thick fingers slide up the side of her thigh and play with the fringe of her dress.

“Dancing. Drinking. The usual.”

She smirks at him and he gives her a lopsided smile. Drunk already while Mary was halfway there. He finishes his drink and gives her the champagne. She downs it quickly and stands with him, but wobbles from the head rush. He steadies her with a hand on her waist and a terrible sense memory washes over her.

_She's at a party her father is throwing for returning veterans. Something exciting for her, all the dashing soldiers, some in uniform for active service and some in plainclothes. Her heel had snapped on her new shoes and before she could tumble into the buffet, a strong hand had grabbed her around the waist, righting her quickly._

_She leaned into his perfect height, a solid presence at her side and she raised a palm to her forehead._

_“Goodness, these silly things. Every girl in town has them, but I don't understand why we wear them at all.”_

_“You look lovely either way.”_

_She turned and was released by the soldier and she got a good look at him. Blond hair, around her age – he looked like he had been sick for a long time, but there were laugh lines around his eyes and he had a feeling of goodness radiating from him, something she couldn't explain._

_Mary had certainly been around the block enough to know men, but John was reserved and polite: he held his hands above her waist while they danced and he asked to call on her some time next week. She was too busy being charmed to notice anything wrong with him._

It didn't hurt that her father greatly disapproved of their continuing relationship and it had been one of the triumphs of Mary's life to get out from under his thumb and run away with John, who still seemed shocked she wanted him at all.

Mary stops before she and no-name reach the dance floor. She hands him back the champagne glass and feigns a headache, grabbing her purse and heading for the coat closet. She gets outside and the fading summer heat makes her swing her coat over her arm instead as she walks towards the taxi rank.

No matter what the war had done to John, that inherent sweetness was still in him. Through the first years of their marriage as they tried again and again to have children, he remained sweet and reassuring, even as she felt more and more dissatisfied. John accelerated through the end of his medical school and got half a practice, but there was little joy in the news for either of them when they couldn't find happiness at home.

She hails a taxi and stares out the window as it bucks and starts the ride home, far earlier than she would normally return.

John had bad dreams. It got to the point where he woke Mary every single night. He would thrash and yell and soak the sheets with sweat until she wasn't even trying to rest. Moving to the guest bedroom had given her sleep, but it left her bed empty and cold and she knew there was a great struggle going on in her soldier's heart.

He wanted to do right by her, to stop the nightmares, and the startled jumping, and scanning a room before he entered fully. But there was no off switch for shellshock, she was soon to find. It just stayed like an angry ghost between them, shoving them further and further apart until Mary stopped being sad and started getting angry. Angry at John, angry at herself. She took it out in the beds of other men because she knew it would hurt John and hurt herself, but at least she and him were feeling _something_.

She digs her key out of her purse and unlocks the front door to her house. Their house.

She tries to be quiet going up the stairs, although lately she's not sure if John's home or not. That man who came for breakfast – she didn't even know his full name. John hadn't shared that with her. When was the last time they shared anything but a meal?

Reaching the second floor platform, Mary feels a sudden rush of shame. She's usually better at hiding this part from herself, but thinking of their rare breakfast together, she can't remember the last time she had slept in her husband's bed.

She turns and goes for their bedroom door instead of the guest room again. The door is unlocked and the room recently cleaned, but it still smells like John. It's really his room now, as Mary had shifted her things to the guest. She walks to his wardrobe and opens both panels wide to look at his clothes. His nice suit hangs towards the back, his everyday waistcoats in the front. There's a travel toiletries kit and a round hat that doesn't suit him at all on the top shelf.

She smiles at the memory of the day she got it for him, early in their marriage – she bought it impulsively, but knew it was a wrong fit as soon as she got it home for him to try. John knew it too, but gamely wore it to dinner and every Easter Sunday after that. Her frown returns as she remembers they didn't go to Easter Sunday this year. Did they go last year?

The panel doors close and she turns back to his room. Running her fingers along the sheets of his military made bed feels good, its lines cool and clean like John. Some days, she hates it about him. The calmness irritates her because she can't find it in herself. She finds calm in the bottom of a bottle because they don't _talk_ about anything anymore. John would rather keep everything quiet than – !

She rips the sheet off the bed and wads it up to throw it in the corner. It feels vicious and wonderful. The pillows follow just for good measure. Anger makes her _feel_ , moping was never her style and she swings to face the rest of the room to find something else of John's that she can destroy, to make him angry, to make him feel like her so they're on the same page again. _Anything_.

His desk holds an innocent stack of leather journals and she reaches for them, ready to shred. She flips one open, grips the top of the page, but pauses when her eye catches on the first paragraph. She lowers the book to hold it with both hands, scanning the rest of the page.

The man's name is Sherlock Holmes. There are pages and pages about just him. Then there are pages about him and John. She finds herself pulled in, the stories wrapping around her and brought to life with John's words. John is a beautiful writer and the more she reads, the more she understands.

Mary's heart breaks into a dozen shards.

More passion fills those pages than any one day of their marriage. Nothing on earth could stop her reading the rest of the journals. She sinks into his desk chair, engrossed. They're filled with solved cases, but also John's observations and his plain adoration and affection for Sherlock Holmes are a slap in the face for her. By the time she reaches the final journal, Mary has trouble breathing. The tears roll down her cheeks unchecked and she closes the book, placing it on the desk.

She feels hollow, like every inch of her body was drained of feeling and happiness. John was finding his happiness in the streets and alleys of London with a brilliant man that was obviously doing something for him that Mary never had. John sounded _happy_ , alive and looking forward to their every meeting so they could go off on their boys' adventures again. Hadn't she tried? She'd tried to make him happy. He hadn't seemed capable of it in the last few years.

  
Disgust rises that she even felt guilty earlier in the evening. She left a perfectly nice party to come home and cry over her husband who wasn't even home. He was at _his_ house, or out on _his_ streets, getting into God knows what kind of trouble.

She pushes back the chair abruptly. Let them rot. She needed a drink.

She flips off her shoes and leaves them on the floor of John's bedroom, not bothering to keep her footsteps quiet as she heads downstairs for their liquor cabinet. Her liquor cabinet. She drops heavily to the floor with her bottle, leans against the wall in her stocking feet.

Maybe he'd come back home if she drank herself to death.

oOo

John jerks awake to a sharp ringing in 221B. He'd fallen asleep in the chair again and his neck protests sharply after his whole body tensed in surprise. Sherlock is already up from the couch and he drops a calming hand on John's shoulder as he passed to the kitchen.

The ringing stops and Sherlock croaks out a groggy command.

“What do you want?”

John cracks his neck and twists in the chair to see Sherlock standing in front of an open cabinet, his house-robe hanging off one shoulder. His hair has cowlicked in odd directions on this rare night that he even got some sleep. He looks muzzy, soft and imperfect and John likes seeing this side of him. It makes him more human when he knows Sherlock gets bad morning breath too. He checks his pocket-watch and finds it just past seven in the morning and groans. He slept here too long.

He stands up and rolls his shoulders, walking to the threshold of the kitchen. His smile grows as he sees the telephone that Sherlock must have shoved in the pantry at some point, the wire tangled and hastily stuffed behind the bread box. No wonder John hadn't noticed it.

Sherlock looks to him and John straightens. The detective lost all sleepiness as the call went on. He locks his eyes on John and finishes the phone call.

“I'll inform him.”

The telephone goes back in the cabinet and Sherlock turns to face John, expression grim. John braces himself for whatever bad news his friend has.

“Sherlock, are you alright? What's happened? Can I do anything for you?”

He can't help the hand he wraps around Sherlock's forearm, offering blind comfort. Sherlock twists the hold and grasps John's forearm instead.

“John. Something's happened to your wife.”

The blood drains from John's face. He takes a step back, but Sherlock doesn't release him.

“What?”

Sherlock grips his other arm and ducks a little to be eye level with John.

“Listen, she's in hospital –”

“What!?”

“But John! Listen to me – you need to stay calm. Let me get dressed and we'll go.”

He stands in the kitchen, dumbfounded for a moment while he watches Sherlock rush into his bedroom and back out before John can even move. He hands John his coat and drags him downstairs for them to hail a cab.

He blinks and they're in the hospital. John dashes down the hallway after Sherlock's quick steps. He vaguely notices Evelyn in the hallway, weeping, but his mind is on Mary. She must be okay, this is probably nothing, why wasn't he at home when this happened? Was this something he could have prevented? He was a damned doctor!

They reach a convalescence room that has rows and rows of bright windows and white beds and his wife is in one of them. He walks past Sherlock searching every sick face until he finds his Mary, pale and asleep on white sheets. He grasps her hand and drops to the chair beside her bed, bringing her knuckles to his forehead.

A doctor approaches to tell him what happened. Alcohol poisoning – the maid found her barely breathing, covered in her own sick on the dining room floor. The information shakes him. This happened at their own home. He could definitely have prevented this. The doctor leaves and John shudders, feels ill.

oOo

Sherlock stands at the foot of Mary's bed and watches John. He could care less about the woman there by her own doing, but John's clear anguish set off an interesting reaction in Sherlock. He tries to isolate it, to understand why seeing John like this, wrecked and inconsolable, was tearing him apart.

There was little he could do and her hospitalization wasn't even that serious, but with his surmised knowledge of John's married life, he knew John's tears were for something much larger than a hospital visit. He comes to stand behind John, offering comfort he wishes he knew how to give.

A groan escapes from Mary and John immediately straightens, gripping his wife's pale hand. She blinks into hazy focus and looks to John in confusion.

“Where am I?”

John sounds desperate with relief to have her awake and coherent.

“You're in the hospital, love. You made yourself sick last night.”

_Love._

The endearment shocks Sherlock. He'd never heard John use a pet name before and it suddenly sounds _wrong wrong wrong_ when he's saying it to Mary. He looks at their conjoined hands and something slowly unfolds in his mind, a wonderful, horrible realization. So many clues, how could he be so _stupid?_

Mary's eyes come to rest on him and her face tightens.

“What is he doing here?”  
  
John looks over his shoulder like he's noticing Sherlock for the first time.

“He brought me here. I got the phone call at his flat. We came as soon as we could.”

Mary keeps her eyes locked on Sherlock's, an ugly clarity there.

“He needs to leave.”

John's shoulders stiffen.

“He's fine, dearheart, I'm sure he just wanted to check on you, too.”  
  
“I'm not feeling up to strange visitors, John. He needs to go.”

She starts coughing and Sherlock glares – that's not even a part of alcohol poisoning – but John turns in his seat to study him.

Sherlock already knows what John is going to tell him. He knows how to read people because it's his work, but he cannot explain the disappointment that sinks into his stomach at the clear message John's going to give him.

He leaves before John can open his mouth. He doesn't need this. Why is he even here? To watch over some sickly woman while the little soldier plays doctor? He has better things to do with his time.

The double doors slam behind him on his way out, the curtains billowing in a suitably dramatic summer breeze. John doesn't watch him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Chelsea](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) for her beautiful beta-ing. You keep me right! 
> 
> Just a little side note - I couldn't help but be influenced by AA's portrayal of Mary, but this is still very much my own idea of her. Nothing from canon is leaking in on purpose, as I had her structure planned out before S3. She's a lot more Sylvia Tietjens twisted around what I wanted for this fic than anything else. 
> 
> That's it! Thanks for your continued support! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter veers away from Parade's End canon a bit more than usual in its character development. A little less Tietjens, a little more John. 
> 
> Also, implied drug use warning.

Sherlock Holmes stands outside John Watson's front door, furious with himself.

Furious is not a big enough word for how angry Sherlock feels. Enraged, seething, irate.

This morning marked five days since Sherlock had seen John and the detective had decided to stop by on his way to the chemists. No matter that his regular chemist was on the other side of London, but Sherlock leaned his full weight against the excuse to see John.

Not that he was worried, or missed him, or needed to see him for any reason whatsoever. These were all things below Sherlock, things that ordinary people felt. But he allowed himself to feel anger.

John refused to see him and had told the maid to send him away. John wasn't supposed to do that. Sherlock wasn't supposed to feel like this.

When he left Mary's bedside last week, Sherlock fully expected John to see through her poor attempt to keep him by her side, even with John's slower wit, but there had been more than enough time for him to come to his senses and return to cases with Sherlock. This was unacceptable.

Sherlock turns on the doorstep, hiding the sting with creative ways to destroy things in his flat. The violin, the sofa cushions, the kitchen – oh dishes! Or perhaps himself. He knew how selfish it was to head for his secret stash, but if the doctor wanted someone to take care of...

The anger froths in him and propels him straight to 221B without much memory of getting there. He makes it up the stairs, slams his front door and rips off his waistcoat before he realizes he's not alone in the flat.

“There's that terrible dramatic streak of yours flaring up again, brother.”

Sherlock hasn't seen Mycroft in weeks and would have preferred to keep it that way. His brother looks calm and placid and like he needs a punch in the face. Sherlock takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to diffuse his anger, lest it comes to him snapping his brother's neck for a casual remark. He turns to head to the kitchen.

“I'd be very careful right now, Mycroft.”

Mycroft doesn't answer. He folds his hands neatly in his lap while Sherlock doesn't offer him any tea. Annoyed, Sherlock breaks the silence first.

“What does his lordship want?”

“I thought we were past this, brother.”

Sherlock's stomach bottoms out when he realizes Mycroft holds his syringe in the palm of his hand. He thought he had been extremely clever in his hiding spot. He clenches his fist. Not clever enough apparently.

“That's not yours.”

He's spitting – he knows he is – but he can't help the anger at Mycroft, at John, at himself. There's too much going on in his head and the peace he needs rests in his twice-damned prick of a sibling's hand. He won't try to snatch it from him, but the temptation is great.

Mycroft comes to the kitchen and Sherlock braces his arms back on the countertop, aggressively casual. The syringe still rests innocently in Mycroft's palm and a wave of gooseflesh breaks out on Sherlock's neck and forearms. His tongue grows heavy with how badly he wants to take the cylinder, plunge it into the giving flesh in the crease of his elbow, the thick rush of oblivion that would take away sounds and stupidity and John.

John.

He looks up at Mycroft, who has been studying him, and scowls at the tiny drop of guilt souring in the back of his mouth.

John's purpose in life was to heal, to protect. What would heroin do to their growing companionship? Almost as if it's already happening, Sherlock sees the hurt on John's face, the distance gaping between them as he realizes what Sherlock's done to himself, what he needs instead of John. Not very 'heroic,' as the origin name of the drug would suggest.

Sherlock remembers what he was like on the drugs, the creativity spoiling, but he was so peaceful, so relaxed. But didn't John make him feel that way too? John soothed him like no other balm. He listened and illuminated and coaxed the best parts of Sherlock to light. He never knew what strength was until he met John. He trembles where he stands and feels weak as a kitten at the idea of losing John's steadfast presence.

“Think about that. Remember what you're feeling at this exact moment and hold onto it, Sherlock.”

Mycroft's voice is quiet, not soothing, but necessary. He folds his fingers over the syringe and gently lays it on the table between them before turning to exit the flat. It glints with heavy intent on the roughened wood and Sherlock's stomach drops.

Mycroft never would leave drugs in the flat. If he found the syringe, he found the drugs and took them with him. But the thought of destroying himself in such a way just to get rid of John in his mind spoils so quickly that Sherlock snatches up the syringe, stomps to the window and raises his fist, fully intending to smash it on the pavement below.

His breath stops in his chest as he takes in the feel of the metal, the clean lines of the needle, the particular weight, and he lowers his hand, clutching the instrument to his chest. He steps away from the window and returns to the mantlepiece to hide it again.

John was the strong one. Sherlock knew he was weak. But John wasn't there to remind him what strength was and he couldn't risk not having this on a rainy day. He tucks it away and smashes all of his dishes in the bathtub.

 

oOo

A chair scrapes and John wakes with a start.

His heart patters unevenly until he realizes it was his own chair making the noise in the guest room. He rubs his hands across his face, scratching at the morning growth on his chin while he pops his neck and searches his wife's face.

Mary lies in the guest bed, John's chair scooted as close to the edge as possible. He unfolds his legs with an uncomfortable crack as he reaches for his wife's wrist to take her pulse. Steady and reassuring, he gently places her hand back at her side.

She looks much better than a few days ago. The doctors released her after a day, deeming her physically well enough to go home to rest. But one of them had pulled John aside, whispered 'sanatoriums' and 'irrational behavior'. A protective wave for his wife swept through him and he coldly asked if they could leave.

It had felt like every judgmental nurse's eye was on them as he bundled Mary into the cab, wrapped in a spare blanket and looking frightened as a child. John thought about calling Eveyln to help them, but the poor girl was still distraught that she hadn't done more to help. Besides, John felt the need to do this himself, to carry Mary over the threshold again, to smooth her hair back as he tucked her into her preferred bed. He hadn't left her side except to eat.

She'd woken a few times, groggy and disoriented, eating a little and talking with John for small snippets until she fell back asleep. John knew the symptoms of alcohol poisoning, but he worried that an underlying sickness lurked, perhaps keeping Mary unwell. She should be up by now.

His stomach stays in constant knots, writhing over each other every time he thinks of the state of his wife. The glow has come back to her cheeks, but she looks so very tired, even when she's resting. He reaches out a finger and draws it across the apple of her cheek, a deep sadness hollowing out beneath his sternum. She turns her head into the touch and slowly opens her eyes.

“Mary.”

She tucks her legs up underneath the quilt on her bed, rolling the side and pressing John's palm to her face. They sit there in silence for a long stretch of time, watching each other with a strained wariness as if neither is sure what to make of the other. Her wedding band presses smoothly into the back of his hand.

A tentative knock on the door startles them both. John keeps his eyes on Mary, checking the alertness that had been missing the other times she woke.

“Yes?”

Evelyn returned a day ago, quiet and uneasy, the guilt heavy on her plain features, though John had reassured her she had done all she could. She stands in the door way now, peeping around the edge.

“Begging your pardon, sir. There's a tall gentleman at the door, the one from before. He says I'm to tell you to come downstairs and not take no for an answer.”

Mary's hand drops away from John's. He watches the cloud roll over her features before she turns to lie on her back, jaw tight. His hand rests on the pillow close to her head and he curls his fingers slowly, trying to decide what to do.

How many days had it been since he'd seen Sherlock?

Long enough for Sherlock to come and demand his time. As if he were the only important thing in the world. John swallows against the wave of anger that rises when he thinks of Sherlock's derision towards the frail woman in the bed before him. Who was Sherlock to demand anything? His duty as a husband came first, before friendship, and he would stay right here until his wife was well.

He doesn't even turn to Evelyn to answer.

“Send him away.”

Being a smart girl, Evelyn doesn't ask twice and goes down to face the wrath of Sherlock Holmes on her own. John knows that Sherlock will leave when dismissed, too prideful to force his way into a place where he wasn't wanted, somewhere that would only cause discomfort for him. Would it only be uncomfortable for him?

Before John can turn an inward eye, he notices Mary watching him, a small smile on her full lips, something hopeful in her eyes. It drives a railroad spike through his heart to think of himself as the cause for her pain. She shouldn't have to look hopeful to spend time with him. All her trespasses fall to dust as John watches her turn back, entwining their fingers. He reaches down to press a kiss to their hands.

“I'm not going anywhere, love.”

Mary smiles.

“Of course you're not.”

 

oOo

Right now, John only has eyes for her.

Mary wants only _this_ – the absolute trust and devotion shining out of John's face in this moment. Like this, she can forgive the times when John's so sad he won't speak. She forgives the shell shock that hung spectral over their wedding bed for years until she couldn't stand it anymore.

But she knows this is not all that she wants, even as she thinks the words. She looks to their entwined fingers, knowing that forgiveness is only part of the problem. She's cheated on John with more men than she can count. She can forgive John, but can John forgive her?

His growing closeness with the detective opened her eyes to what her life would be like without John, even the distant husband he'd been in the years before he'd met Sherlock. In the early part of their marriage, John tried so very, very hard to be the perfect husband for her. He was going to finish his studies and open his own practice, they could start a family, visit the country for holidays.

This worked for a while, the buoyancy of their optimism keeping them afloat for the first year, then serving as a bitter reminder of what they didn't have as time dragged them under. Mary gave up on her hopes for children after multiple tries. It only made them both depressed to realize it wasn't working, after appointments and specialists and praying. She gave up on all of it.

Including John. When he realized his sickness would keep him from opening his own practice and that he wouldn't even have a child to care for anyway, the blackness in his heart threatened to swallow him completely. Mary should have cared more. She should have stuck by his side and remained the loyal, stoic wife, keeping home and hearth.

But she was never that type of girl. She married John because the very idea of him was exciting – it was spontaneous and dangerous to her future wealth and everything was uncertain, except that John loved her. She thrilled at the idea of cutting ties with her family, running away with a decorated soldier and having exotic stories to tell at all the dinner parties they would go to in London.

She thinks back on all that she wants and how could John have ever been enough? She should have looked more clearly at the bags under his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his eyes scanned a whole room before he even spoke to anyone. These are things she would have picked up when she was older.

The past was the past and despite her regrets for having acted so impulsively when she was younger, she did love John. She grew to love his constancy, his devotion to her even when she knew she didn't deserve it. He was an anchor to her while she cast herself in every direction. He was not a warm bed to come home to – she couldn't stomach all the implications of them sleeping together. They failed at sex, she succeeded with others. She never liked feeling guilty – pesky business. Moving to the guest room was a safe bet, better for both of them, she thought.

Looking on John now, she can see the difference as plain as day. Something's changed in him since he found the detective, since he found the adventure that they never could have together. Now _this_ is what she wants from him – the light in his eyes, the devotion, the excitement, but with her and not _him_. What did Sherlock have that she didn't? Mary was bright and interesting, an educated woman with plenty to offer. It was John that lacked in their relationship. If he showed even half the enthusiasm for her as he did when Sherlock came to breakfast, then they could make something truly beautiful together. If not children, then at least an exciting marriage.

This felt like the right time to talk to John, to gauge what he wanted from his relationship with Sherlock and how maybe he was getting better. Not always so sad, maybe up for new things, ready to express _anything_ to her other than cold disappointment. Even this bedside manner was better than all of their interactions in the past six months put together. She felt like he was waking up. Bravery washes through her and she straightens up in bed, keeping their hands knotted together and taking a deep breath.

“John?”

“Hm?”

His face stays clear, bright, and curious. Completely focused and perfect. She takes a deep breath.

“We need to talk.”

oOo

That sentence never boded well for him in the past, but John knew the import of Mary wanting to talk at all. Every sentence between them had been strained and icy, until this recent sickness that Mary brought upon herself. Or maybe John had helped her, he still wasn't certain where the blame should fall. He clears his mind and focuses on his wife. She smiles at him.

“Don't look so serious. I'm not about to chop off your head.”

John gives a weak smile, so she continues.

“I just wanted – well.”

She sighs deeply, brow furrowed and he runs a thumb over her knuckles.

“Take your time. You've just woken up.”

Mary looks at him sharply, but doesn't comment. When he doesn't reply either, she looks past him to the bedroom window.

“What's the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?”

John flinches. He can't help the natural reaction to the steel in her voice, though she keeps the volume quiet. He resists the urge to let go of her hand as the room had felt so cozy only moments before. There was time to salvage the peace.

“He's my patient.”

Mary gives him a look and John ruffles his free hand through his dirty hair.

“Yes, alright, he's more than a patient, though he _is_ that. He's my … friend. I think I'm his friend too. He doesn't have any others that I know of.”

Mary's quiet unnerves him a bit. The mood feels honest and he tumbles into a tangled knot of sentences, trying to express just what Sherlock meant to him in the past few months.

“I _know_ we're friends. We do so much together – I help him with cases. Well, I say help, but really I just stand around and watch him be brilliant. He astounds me with the depth and breadth of his knowledge. If he's bored, which is _always_ , then he's a complete child, destroying whatever he can get his hands on, or mixing chemicals so foul I have to open all the windows. He just goes and goes, energy perpetual. But when he quiets down, at home, he can be very soothing to be around. Some friends need constant conversation, but we're perfectly suited to stay quiet for hours.”  
  
He stops at the dreamy quality he hears in his own voice and looks guiltily at Mary, her face frigid. The previous warmth between them disperses and John shuts down the heat spreading through his chest and up his neck. He has nothing to be embarrassed about. He clears his throat. Mary nearly spits at him.

“Sounds very domestic.”

John lifts his chin, refusing to be cowed, refusing to be quiet again. He thinks of his growing strength these last few months, the lessening of his night terrors and the swelling of his confidence in himself. Sherlock's done that to him, not Mary.

“At least I'm getting domesticity somewhere.”

Mary yanks her hand away from him, features pinched. John might have tried to reach for her again before, out of habit and an instinct to keep his wife happy, loyalty engraved in his very bones. But he releases her without protest, hands gripping his own knees as he leans forward, feeling poisonous. All the years of solitude, of the hurt Mary had piled on him with every stranger's love bite and late nights, it rides behind his words and pushes all thoughts of politeness to the very far edges of his mind.

“Mary, tell me why we had to take you to the hospital?”

She pauses and avoids eye contact for a moment.

“What else is a lonely wife supposed to do when her husband's out but drink away her sorrows?”

John splutters, outraged.

“You? You're the lonely party here? Mary, I'm not blind. I don't know where you go, but I know what you get up to, certainly. The evidence covers you every time you come home. There are plenty of people around you.”

“Just because I'm with people doesn't mean I'm not lonely! My heart can be somewhere else completely.”

“I don't understand.”

“John, I go to them because I want to _feel_. I don't feel anything anymore. I certainly don't feel you. Some days I think I'm dying, like I'm going to fade away because no one touches me in a way that means anything. That's supposed to be _your_ job. A husband's duty. But you're so ruined, I don't think you even know you're doing anything wrong.”

John doesn't know what to say, his jaw clenched. Her words cut deep into his identity, surgically rearranging all the parts he thought were working in his psyche. His cheeks burn in shame at her accusations, his gut roiling with unfulfilled promises and regrets. She nearly convinces him that her behavior was entirely his fault, but he centers himself and speaks again with deadly clarity.

“So it was for attention. You hopped from one stranger's bed to the others so that you could find _meaning_ by fucking around?”

He jerks back as Mary slaps him, the sharp crack of skin on skin snapping through the tense room. The tiniest sliver of guilt settles in his heart as he takes in the tears sliding down her cheeks. She sees where he's looking and buries her face in her hands, hiding her shame. Her shoulders quiver and John reaches out halfway to touch her.

Her muffled protest is enough for him to grip the edge of the bed, leaning forward to hear her watery confession.

“John, this is not how this was supposed to go. I'm sorry. I'm so – sorry.”

She hiccups and he wants to hold her, his stomach rolling in nausea. The fluctuating emotions were giving him whiplash and he rubs his hands over his face as Mary continues in a quiet voice.

“We're supposed to do all those things together, John. What happened? This passion you've found, I've never seen it in you before. Is this what you were like before the war? We were supposed to go on adventures and have three children, we named them, do you remember –”

John holds up a hand, stopping her, mouth drawn into a tight frown.

“Don't.”

She knocks his hand away, fierce anger clearing away her sadness.

“No, I _will_ talk about this. We don't talk about it! That's half of what caused all this, John! I wanted a _family_ with you! Look at us! You're a bloody piece of wood who wakes up every day to complete the same routine over and over again, never changing, never smiling, a little toy soldier lost – ”

John embraces the fire of their argument.

“What reason would I have to smile when my wife is philandering adulteress? Sleeping with any willing pair of legs that walks past, empty of all virtue and sense of loyalty.”

“At least I'm not a _sodomite_ with a bloody circus freak who looks like a posh, inbred demented pervert and you're loving every second of his company! What does that say about you?”

John clenches his teeth, curling his fingers into fists as Mary reels closer to him, properly wound up. She hisses close enough to his face for him to feel the sting of her breath.

“It says that you're the freak, too.”

John turns the other cheek and tries to shut down, shut her out. They tried to face things, but look where that got them. Ignoring the problem was the right thing to do. At least they weren't shouting at each other like this.

“Stop it! Don't you dare leave me right now. You always do this!”

She wraps her fingers around his chin and pulls his eyes back to her face. She looks confused and sounds mocking at the same time, aiming to wound.

“You've always been this way, haven't you? I should have seen it. Has our whole marriage been a lie? Is this why we couldn't have children? Because of your perversion?”

His entire body shakes with controlled anger and frustration. John Watson would never, ever strike a woman and he knew he needed to leave the room immediately. But he felt cemented to the chair. His feet turn to lead, his heart twists in his ribcage. This is too much.

Mary was twisting the only good thing in his life. The happiness that he felt with Sherlock, the wonderful surge of strength he embraced when they ran down the streets of London together, the sharp absence of his company and the relief of seeing him again. How could something so wonderful for them be a perversion? How was Mary so blind?

He lets out a breath and opens his eyes. He feels back on the battlefield, facing the enemy.

“I'm through talking.”

He shifts his chair back and rises, completely detached from the argument now. He knew he would have to sort through this on his own, deal with the hard honesty of his crumbling marriage. He also knew that if he continued talking, he would say something extremely regretful and he needed to get out of this room.

Mary had no such qualms about speaking. Her voice rings empty, the fight over.

“I love you, John Watson. I had such high hopes for you. I wanted to be good for you. I was ready to be good. You were showing such promise.”

John watches her, his spirit breaking. The love he feels for her lies in the bottom of his heart, twisted into something hurtful to look at or touch. He doesn't even know how to approach it anymore, so he locks it away. He brushes a damp lock off of Mary's forehead and she looks up at him, defeated.

“You're leaving?”

He nods.

“For now.”

The spite slips back into her voice as he turns to go.

“I hope he fucks you straight into the prison yard.”

He hears the rustle of her yanking the sheets around herself as she turns over and he slams the door behind him on the way out.

oOo

John walks to Baker Street. His feet ache by the time he reaches the doorstep and he knocks so hard the shock ricochets down his arm to his shoulder. The impact feels good, so he does it again, needing to feel something besides the absolute chaos going on inside him.

The whole walk to Sherlock's flat, he brooded and wrestled with all that Mary had told him or accused him of. The more he thought, the more her words carved into him like a firebrand, stripping him raw until he felt wetness on his cheeks, his will unable to stop the tears from falling.

He leans his head against the cooling wood, struggling to breathe as he hears footsteps going down the inside staircase. Sherlock would let him in, keep him in his home, not let any more harm come to him. Sherlock was the only one he could be truly honest with, a brutal sounding board who would tell him exactly what was wrong or right with whatever the situation. Sometimes refreshing, sometimes terrifying, but always exciting. John needed that, he needed to talk about Mary, about how much pain he was in. Sherlock didn't even have to answer him. He just needed him.

The inside lock turns and John's stomach flips with it, his heart thumping faster at the chance to see the man behind the door, to be let into the warmth and comfort and solitude of 221B, a home far more his home than the house he was paying for.

The handle turns and John doesn't even lift his head as the door moves away from him. He stares at the arches of Sherlock's bare feet, the long stretch of his toes on the threshold.

“John?”

Sherlock's warm voice breaks a dam in John and he looks up fully. Sherlock's curls are mussed to one side, probably where he was taking a cat nap on the sofa or in his chair, surrounded by his notes. His robe hangs on his broad shoulders, his pajamas loose and soft, the complete opposite of his day attire.

He can see Sherlock noticing the tears on his face, the fine trembling of his frame and the note of concern strengthens. He half raises his hand to John's neck, his brows lowering.

“John?”

An unexplained relief floods John's chest, an affection so strong that his knees wobble slightly. Before his brain even makes the connection, he steps through the doorway and reaches up, pulling Sherlock down and pressing his mouth to his warm lips in a peaceful kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the sparkly [intricatearticulation](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) for endless amazingness in beta-ing skills.


	12. Chapter 12

They both stand frozen for a long moment, the press of their lips the only contact between them. Sherlock comes to his senses faster, pulling John over the threshold of his door and into the safety of 221B. The questions threaten to spill out of him immediately, his brain collapsing into disbelief, anger, elation. He doesn't know where to put his hands, but John follows him, reaching for him as he makes the decision for the both of them. The door swings shut with a kick of his heel.

Sherlock pulls at John, placing his back against the wall of the foyer, their mouths never parting, and waits, their lips moving in slow pushes. His brain overflows and he cannot stop the alarm bells ringing.

Is this something John wants? What is John doing? He was crying - is this in reaction to something Sherlock did? Why did it feel like this was Sherlock's fault? He wasn't used to feeling guilt very often, but when it came to John he stopped expecting the normal reactions from himself.

It was disconcerting to hold this John, this version of his constant companion. His body language screamed 'hurt' and Sherlock had never been very good at soothing. But for John... this was something he could do. He opens his mouth and swipes his tongue across John's giving mouth and presses their bodies together, his hands sliding over John's trembling shoulders.

oOo

John refuses to think about what he's doing. All the anguish and mental stress of months, years, drift to the back of his mind and he focuses on the comfort of the warm body in front of him, of Sherlock reacting to his touch, opening his mouth and his mind to John. This is not something he even knew he wanted until he was doing it. Mary's inversion accusations ring sharp in his ears and his face burns, until he puts that out of mind too. How long had it been since he was touched this gently? With this much devotion? He feels it from Sherlock, the way his long fingers barely touch his shoulders, the cautious slide of his tongue.

He touches his own tongue to Sherlock's, waiting for the other man to pull away in disgust, for the revulsion to rise so strongly in himself that he would find the strength to break them apart. It never comes.

Instead, a dam cracks in his chest, his ribs aching with the strain of containing the rush of affection, trust and confusion . Of course Sherlock kisses him back – when has Sherlock ever done anything expected of him? But John is dependable, steady. He isn't a risk-taker anymore, or so he thought. He alarms himself with how overwhelmed he becomes at the idea of what they're doing, the consequences, so he clutches Sherlock closer, wrapping his hands around his waist and tugging until they're touching from shoulder to hip.

Sherlock has to duck a bit for their heights to align, his hot mouth sliding to the corner of John's lips. He traces a line down to his jaw, sucking wet kisses to the joint of his ear. A small noise comes from far away, his throat working with emotion and arousal.

They could both rot in a cell for this. The trust that Sherlock places in him with this secret, this abnormality that suits them perfectly, buries itself deep in John's soul. He gasps with the weight of it settling in his stomach, the intimacy blooming between them that was at once strange and perfectly familiar.

He reaches for those dark curls and pulls Sherlock's lips back to his own, pouring his appreciation and anguish into the joining of their mouths.

oOo

John's sudden enthusiasm startles Sherlock. He rearranges his arms and tucks them up behind John's back, spreading his hands wide on his shoulder blades. His daydreams come back to him, the imaginary John made real beneath his fingertips. He memorizes the breadth of his shoulders, the swell of his lungs, the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Their fronts press together and he acknowledges every part he can feel of John, tucks the facts away in satisfaction. These are new facets of John, ones he was not allowed to collect before.

The mental measuring falls away though, his mind stumbling over the information he collects until he falls upon the true questions. He almost hears John say the words that plague him.

_What am I, Sherlock?_

Sherlock knows he could take every inch of John and examine the evidence and still not know the answer to the impossible question. As John moans into his mouth, he realizes he might not need the answer. John is... John. He exists in the heat rolling off him in waves, the smell of home in his coat, the tear tracts on his cheeks, the desperate fingers in his hair.

He breaks down each of these things in his mind and examines them as best he can: the heat is his passion for Sherlock, something he never thought someone would find for him, much less an answering echo in his own body. His smell – domesticity and their friendship, medicine and alleyways, their companionship singing in his blood. Sherlock recognizes his hyper-awareness of John at all times, whether he's in the kitchen or pressed into his side while they hide; his smell is something that tangibly reminds Sherlock of all these things at once.

His tears are harder to explain. Sherlock knows every painful detail of John's personal life, the parts he had been told and the parts kept hidden away. Never before had the sight of another's tears moved him so deeply. It confuses him, knowing the details and actually _caring_ about them. Where did this caring come from? Why John?

The desperation in John's grip brings him back to the moment with a sharp tug on his hair. John hitches his hips closer blindly, presses himself into the vee of Sherlock's legs. Heat spreads like an inkblot through Sherlock's chest at the arousal he feels there, the madness of what they're doing. Why John? Why him?

All at once, he comes to peace. He drags his hands from John's shoulders and grips his gently swaying hips, pushes them against the wall. He plasters himself fully along John's body, the fine trembling in the doctor spreading to him as he opens his jaw wider, buries himself deeper into John.

He abandons the logic and reason that anchor him to the world that often overwhelms him with its problems and people and noise. A new cornerstone settles into the rubble of his heart, a new foundation that settles some wild part of him. He feels stronger with every rut of his hips against this broken man.

If John trusts him with this, he will trust John, no explanation needed.

The rush of this revelation leaves him light headed and he thrusts harder, digging his fingers into the top of John's backside. He would show John Watson, show him that his trust was not misplaced, that he hadn't made the wrong choice in allowing Sherlock to see him like this, to touch him at all. He gives a final nip to John's lower lip and drops to his knees.

oOo

All the breath leaves John's body when Sherlock hits the floor. Before his mind stops skipping, the detective mouths him through the front of his trousers, leaving damp on the material. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he places a tentative hand on the top of Sherlock's head, weaving into warm curls. They both pause, electrical shocks jumping from John's fingers to race in his veins while Sherlock breathes him in, his nose pressed to the juncture of his hip and groin.

John can't believe this is happening; every sense he possess points towards the man between his knees. He stares at the dark curve of Sherlock's lashes, the swell of his red mouth, parted with quick breaths _for him_. For John.

He closes his own eyes at the thought of it, that he has rendered the smartest man in the world to speechlessness, on his knees at the feet of a common, useless man. Before he can let that doubt creep in, Sherlock breaks the moment, plucking at the line of neat buttons on his trousers and undoing them reverently.

The focus on his face stuns John. Often the detective splits his concentration, his mind too busy to have only one train of thought. The only other time John sees this particular look is when he's on a case, when the lighthouse of his mind floods a brilliant light in one direction until it's all he can see. To be in that focus – John's heart kicks up another notch. He forces his eyes to stay open and take in what's happening to him.

His hips jump without warning when Sherlock's warm fingertips slide in-between the buttons of his undergarments, the thin material leaving nothing to the imagination. His knees jerk when those buttons come undone and he shoves a hand into his own hair when Sherlock finally draws him out, his fingers gentle and hot against his sensitive skin.

He braces for wet heat, the shock of a tongue against his most intimate places, but Sherlock just holds him for a moment. John trembles, his mouth hanging open with harsh pants of breath he cannot control. Sherlock locks eyes with him and the seriousness of his expression leaves John immobile, his brow creased in terror and anticipation.

oOo

Sherlock holds himself still for as long as he can. John's length burns in his palm. Ready to plunge forward with all the enthusiasm he feels waiting, barely checked, he stopped for a moment to gauge John's reaction and paused.

John looks wrecked, his chest heaving, his throat flushed a dark red. His fingers have tangled his own hair, making it stick in odd directions in his tight grip. He looks almost anguished, his fear and need mixing to such a point of high tension that Sherlock knows John is nearly lost.

A strange sense of responsibility settles over him, a need to guide this in John's favor with no regard for his own pleasure. This moment is about John, about erasing that fear, about showing John that there is someone in the world for him, just like John has already proved he's someone for Sherlock, even if he keeps getting lost along the way to the detective's side.

He presses forward then, gently running his nose along the edge of John's cock and the doctor releases his breath in a heavy gust. The hand in Sherlock's hair grips painfully tight, not guiding, but clinging for dear life.

He nuzzles further into John's groin, the smell of him almost overwhelming. He mouths at the skin under golden curls, dips his tongue to touch his testicles, already drawn tight against his body. Pulling back, the smooth skin of his cheek makes John's cock twitch.

Sherlock plans to do the same motions on the other side, explore John in slow, measured movements, but the muscles under his hand – one on John's stomach, the other at his hip – jump and quiver. He looks up again to judge John's reaction and finds the doctor's eyes closed, his bottom lip bitten bloody.

“Sherlock.”

His name spoken so quietly he barely hears it over the pounding of his own blood.

“Sherlock, please.”

A harsh breath pushes out through his nose, a fire lit in his belly like never before. He opens his mouth, sucks the tip in and lets it rest there for a moment, laving his tongue in the sensitive slit, saliva gathering under his tongue as his arousal ratchets up another level.

The broken sigh from John breaks his heart and he bobs his head, taking in as much as he can before pulling back, the press of John to the back of his soft palate the most arousing thing that's ever happened to him. He swallows around the gagging sensation and goes again and again, pulling John's hips close, pulling John into him as best as he can.

oOo

Sherlock's mouth consumes him with unholy passion. John can't stop watching – his hand in Sherlock's hair while his head bobs up and down on his cock, Sherlock's lips stretched tight and pink around his length, the spread of Sherlock's legs with his arousal so evident in the stretch of his trousers. He touches his fingers to his own mouth in dizzy awe, deciding to reach down and trace Sherlock's lips while he sucks.

The moan that rumbles up from Sherlock's chest when he touches him vibrates into his cock and he pushes forward on a harsh thrust, his mind blanking for an instant in complete pleasure. He's never known sex to be this good, ever. Sherlock's mouth goes a little slack after he thrusts and he steadies his hands on John's hips.

John gives another tentative shove and Sherlock makes an approving noise, his eyes shining beneath his sweaty fringe. He lets go and places his hands on John's thighs instead, his face blissed out and peaceful.

John holds still for another breath, overcome at this gift. He pulls his hips back and Sherlock's spit has left his cock wet, shining and ready to dip back into that waiting softness. He pushes back, plush lips circling his cock in unimaginable pleasure. He does it again and again, Sherlock perfectly content to let John fuck his mouth and John cries out with the thought of it all.

He puts both hands in Sherlock's hair now, the core of him trembling with his coming release, the tension of a million wasted hours coiling in his body and his mind. This pleasure, this trust and companionship was something he never thought possible, certainly not in the willing mouth and heart of another man.

Sherlock's face is a study of pure trust in John, allowing him to claim his most useful instrument, this mouth that John has heard cut through fools, light upon the most brilliant trains of thought, soften when he thinks John's done something clever. He knows this is beyond sex for him, the connection between them pulling him closer to climax than the soft suction of Sherlock's lips.

Hot tears spill down his cheeks while his mind rattles out of control. The sobs wrack him with sharp bursts as his pleasure mounts, his hips pistoning as fast he dares, in and out, over and over. Images of his wife overlay with Sherlock, the war, his lost future and this new one that could be built with the man between his legs.

He jerks once, twice, then presses so far in that Sherlock's nose brushes the base of his cock, his lips stretched as wide as possible. He comes down his throat, every muscle in his body clenched. A ragged cry, equal parts pain and pleasure, rips from his throat and he sags, his very soul exhausted.

Sherlock lets him slip from between his lips and flattens his tongue, licking him clean with broad, gentle swipes as John softens. His heart aches and he can't remove his hands from Sherlock's hair, doesn't want to. He wants to cry and sing and pull Sherlock to him and get as far away as possible to hide and tremble like a child in the dark.

He slides his hand down the side of Sherlock's face, tips his fingers under his jaw and it pulls him to his feet. Sherlock tucks him away and refastens his clothes, smoothing his hands down John's sides when he's finished.

John's heart continues racing, the seriousness of what just occurred beginning to seep in. He continues to cup Sherlock's face, but the intensity of his stare makes John shy away from his eyes, to stare at his own hand instead.

The soft light of the foyer catches on his wedding band, still on his finger through the whole ordeal. John feels like it should have burned and burned, but he barely even thought of it while in the throes of passion. A sudden guilt drops heavy into the bottom of his stomach and only grows heavier when he finally meets Sherlock's studying gaze.

oOo

Sherlock sees the regret as soon as it settles into John's features and his own joy is extinguished like a guttering candle. Panic creases John's forehead in ugly lines and Sherlock reaches quickly to grasp John's hand to his face, keep it there and keep the connection between them.

He puts his own hand on John's cheek and stares him down.

“John. Listen to me.”

His voice rasps and catches and it makes John cringe, pulling his hand away while Sherlock catches his fingers.

“Don't do this. You haven't done anything wrong.”

John shakes his head slowly, the rising hysteria clouding the affection out of his eyes. He whispers so quietly, Sherlock barely hears him.

“But I have. Oh, Sherlock. What have I done?”

He finally wrenches his fingers free of Sherlock's and focuses on his own hand. The attention draws in Sherlock and the gold band burns between them with a hateful glow. He can't comprehend how John could feel even remotely guilty after what his wife had done to him.

“John, you can't be serious. Think of what you're doing. That band means nothing to her.”

He reaches again for John's hand, but it's jerked away. The sting of rejection buries a bitter seed in Sherlock's chest and he takes a step back from John. All the warmth that flooded him at the sight of his only friend, the closest person in his life trusting him so completely fades and is replaced with freezing water in his veins, his heart racing with a hurt he cannot describe. He swallows and tries again.

“John –”

“Get away from me.”

John gathers into himself, staring at his feet, at the door, at the hateful wedding band. In a fit, he wrenches it off his own finger, struggling to contain more tears. He yanks it free and stuffs it in his pocket, running both hands through his hair over and over again.

When he turns his gaze on Sherlock, nothing of the calm doctor is there. More terrified animal than human, the detective lets his heart close the doors again, neatly compartmentalizing this evening into a forgettable experience that can be erased at a later time. The memories are still too raw right now, the taste of come still lingering in his mouth, the ache of his jaw. His chest tightens and he straightens his back as the wild doctor stalks along the wall towards the door, pressed close to the exit like Sherlock would _hurt_ him.

As the door slams shut behind him, Sherlock doesn't think John knows he's the one who has hurt _Sherlock_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #notdead - hope this short chapter was worth the wait & thanks for sticking with me! Extra thanks to wonderful [Chelsea](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) for her superior beta-ing & general ass-kicking.


	13. Chapter 13

Lights glow in the windows of Greg's flat. John trips up the steps to his front door, barely managing a few weak knocks before wrapping his arms around himself and waiting in miserable silence.

The door opens and he looks up to find Greg wrapped in a house gown and slippers. John must look wretched for such concern to be on his friend's face. He can barely croak a word.

“Greg.”

The captain sweeps to the side, no questions, and gently pushes John through the door. His insides twist thinking about stepping over another doorstep, less than an hour ago. He clenches his eyes shut and follows Greg to his small parlor.

Without asking, Greg sets to work on making tea. The sounds fade into distant background noise as John plays his actions over and over again in his mind – the warmth in his heart snaking down to burn shame in his belly. He shakes his head and startles when Greg places the tea cup in his hand and drops to the settee beside him, bare ankles crossed.

“Hello.”

John gives a weak smile and sips at his tea. Greg continues.

“I thought about putting something much stronger in your tea than the usual sugar, but I'm not sure that's what you need right now. You'll excuse me for saying so, but you look like shit.”

John places the teacup gingerly on the low table before them, watching the liquid ripple and settle, wishing that his own mind would do the same. He can't bring himself to speak just yet and he hopes that Greg understands.

“Have you split with Mary? You can stay here if you like, though I thought you would have gone to Sherlock's place first.”

He can't help the sharp look in Greg's direction and immediately regrets it when the captain raises one hand in surrender.

“Alright, alright. I didn't mean anything by it. Is it Sherlock then? Has he done something unforgivable?”

Unforgivable.

He becomes unfocused and stares past Greg as his mind wanders. Was it really unforgivable? After all, John was the one who initiated the whole thing, irrational and brash in his moment of turmoil. Sherlock followed his lead. John is the one who succumbed to perversion first, fell headlong into sin and enjoyed it so much that his limbs still quiver with remembered pleasure. Sherlock wasn't promised to someone else forever under the eyes of God and kin.

“No. He hasn't done anything wrong.”

He stands, suddenly unable to sit still. He sheds his coat and walks to Greg's mantelpiece, dropping the fabric over the back of a nearby chair. A small portrait of Lady Hooper, outside in her modest garden, with an umbrella propped open on her shoulder, sits upon the polished wood. She looks beautiful and John picks it up in his distraction to get a closer look. Greg clears his throat.

“Ah yes, I was going to get to that.”

He stands and places his empty teacup above the fireplace, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“I'm not sure now's the best time for it.”

John's eyebrows crease and he looks up from the portrait.

“What do you mean?”

The discomfort grows and Greg picks up his cup, walking it back to the adjoining kitchen.

“I placed that call you suggested.”

John blanks for a moment, searching his memory.

“Molly agreed to come meet me in London for luncheon. This was – oh – probably three or four days ago. Took me ages to work up the courage.”

He sets to wiping the kettle down, his back still turned to John. The doctor approaches his kitchen table, dropping into a worn chair, the portrait held carefully in his palm. He looks at it again and lets Greg finish speaking, his voice a touch too high.

“We had a lovely time. She's lovely. Very – um.”

He checks over his shoulder to gauge John's reaction. John wipes a hand over his face, placing the portrait face up on the table. He gestures at the other seat.

“Greg, sit down. Just tell me.”

Greg slings the washrag over his shoulder and perches on the edge of his seat, a wide grin threatening to break through.

“We're betrothed. She agreed to marry me. She's breaking off the other arrangement and she's marrying _me._ ”

The blood drains from John's face and he places both hands flat on the table, shocked. Greg continues, so happy that he's momentarily oblivious to his friend's distress.

“I thought I was going to bite through my own tongue trying to talk to her, John, I swear it. As soon as I even got close to talking about her breaking off her arrangement, she jumped all over it. She asked if we feel the same about each other! Can you believe it?”

He finally sees the doctor and reaches his fingers across the table, the smile falling from his face.

“John?”

John cannot answer him, not just yet.

The news hits too close to home. The beginning of a happy life together for two people who are absolutely in love. They deserve every joy that their marriage will bring, the children, the cozy hearth, the long days of their retirement in each other's company.

He comes to realize this type of life is not meant for him. Some people may seek happiness and never find it. The knowledge of this drapes on his shoulders until he sags forward on the table, resting his chin on his crossed forearms.

He can hear Greg talking, concern in every syllable, but all he can think of is his wasted years with Mary, the ghosts of their plans fading into the mist. He wants to hold someone – no, he wants to _be_ held. A bitter laugh breaks free as he realizes the only person he wants to hold him was just left coldly on their own doorstep after John's harsh denial of their coupling.

Even as he feels Greg's hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, he thinks he should have seen the signs of him and Sherlock. He'd never felt the same impulses with Greg as he had with Sherlock. The captain's hand on his shoulder did not invite him to turn in his chair, to press his face to his stomach, wrap his arms and around him and just _breathe_. But Sherlock did. Sherlock's every atom called to him, a siren song of adventure and passion and living every day the way John truly wanted to. He made him feel whole, awake, and John never made himself analyze these thoughts that were constantly in his subconscious.

The night he cried on Sherlock's couch – he had never even done that with Mary, much less his best friend Greg, someone who would have understood his tears better than most. The relief in the moments after were so great that he thought himself a changed man. Perhaps that's when it happened.

Sherlock was – is – different and John suddenly feels sick with how terrible everything in his life is. He can't go to Sherlock. He can't go home. He can't go anywhere or cling to anyone. He's a grown man, stuck in the middle of his own problems. He'd have to climb out of this bed and make it himself.

“John! Speak to me!”

He finally looks up into Greg's worried face. Now he's ruining his friend's happiness too. He grasps Greg's forearm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He picks up Molly's portrait and puts it in Greg's hand.

“Greg, I'm so happy for you. I truly, honestly am. This is amazing news.”

He manages a watery smile that Greg obviously doesn't believe for one second.

“I knew this wasn't the right time. Look at you. Come on, you can sleep on the couch.”

Greg clears the dishes, brings John fresh sheets and hovers in the doorway, watching John slowly unbutton his shirt. The captain clears his throat and scratches his chin.

“I've... I've known Sherlock for a long time, John.”

John pauses, looking down at his own bare feet.

“And if you – that is, if you need to talk about something, anything – I'm your man. I'm not someone who would...”

John does turn then, watching his friend very carefully.

“What do you mean?”

Greg gestures helplessly and gives a heavy sigh, ready for the conversation to be over with.

“You obviously just came from Sherlock's house. Your shirt was untucked when you took off your coat, your hair is a bed tussled mess, your mouth is bitten to pieces and he left stubble burns on your neck. I'm not an idiot, John. But I am your dear friend and I wanted you to know that – that I'm not here for what's right or wrong, but for your happiness. You remember that, yeah?”

He holds John's gaze and John feels some small part of him drift into peace. He gives the first sincere smile of the evening, albeit a small one.

“Yeah. I remember.”

Greg nods once and turns on his heel, leaving John to a fitful night of little sleep.

oOo

The storm in John doesn't cease. He thought perhaps slipping back into his daily routine, his morning shave, the string of broken fingers and prescriptions, the evening paper, would help him to forget about what had happened between him and Mary – and Sherlock.

Oh god, Sherlock. John can't stop thinking about him, their tryst hovering in every thought. More surprisingly, he cannot fathom how much he _misses_ the detective. Everyday was another to look forward to when Sherlock was on his front steps and now he finds going back to the drudgery of daily life to be tedious to the point of pain.

When he lies down at night for a few hours, all he can think about is dark curls, dangerous smiles. He rolls over and sees his journals upon his desk, wrapped up tight in their leather, but holding so much more than just words. He rises, draws his fingertips over the ink, thinks of Sherlock's pale skin beneath his own.

But how to be with him? John has never felt like this for a woman before, much less a man. His sexuality was tied to his normalcy, his status as a man wavering with the uncertainty of deviancy. Did this change him? Who was he now? A criminal for one thing.

Even as he throws Mary's words in his own face again, he can't believe them to be true. Every negative aspect of a relationship with Sherlock is counterpointed by every interaction he's had with the man himself.

His mind always circles back to his marriage and that's where he stalls. In the long days before he met Sherlock, when Mary started staying out all night and giving up their bed, he would console himself that at least he had his loyalty, his dignity in the face of such outright adultery. John Watson was someone who kept his promises, doggedly faithful to a fault. He had tied his boat to Mary even as she drifted away, but he would still be her anchor at port.

Now he felt himself uprooted, caught in the hurricane of Sherlock Holmes, a force of nature contained in one man. Could he spend the rest of his life with someone so chaotic? Could he make his life one long secret for someone who refused to eat for days on end, had terrible black moods, left fungus growing in the pantry? Were the risks worth it?

John covers his face as he sits on the edge of his bed, a hysterical giggle slipping out. He realizes his answer – of course he would. He would jump off the edge of the world if Sherlock snapped his fingers. He doesn't know when he became so dependent on seeing Sherlock's every emotion, every flaw, every shining moment of brilliance. With a start, he realizes that Sherlock gave these things to him – he would never have seen the many facets of the detective if he hadn't wanted John to. The doctor had seen him use his talents for deceit, to outright lie in the face of suspects or police (even criminals) to get to his end. He's different when they're in public, colder and remote. John knows what's he like lounging like a cat on his ratty sofa, tired and pliant after a case well-solved.

He had seen Sherlock frustrated, unbathed, and sick at different points in their friendship. More importantly, Sherlock had seen the same of John. Though he knew he didn't have the mental capacity of his friend, he felt on even ground with Sherlock, a companion instead of a minion, embraced instead of held at arm's length. His admiration and affection were genuine each time he examined his feelings for his friend and each time he did, the word 'friend' felt less and less accurate.

Sherlock was more than a 'companion' or an 'associate', both things Sherlock had called John at one point or another... which makes John pause.

Did Sherlock feel this way too? Was he at 221B pulling his hair out, pacing the floor? Thinking of John? It was just as likely that he had forgotten all about their moment in the hallway, treated it as just that – a moment. He could be back out on the streets, perfectly normal and glad to be rid of John Watson. What if …

Putting aside his own feelings, what was to be done about Mary? Evelyn told him the morning he came home that she overheard a private conversation; Mary was gone to stay with a friend on the other side of the city and hadn't been home since. That was over a week ago. They needed to talk again, but John couldn't face her as he was just now. He couldn't face Sherlock yet either. The giant 'what if' lingering ever-present in his thoughts kept his feet far away from Baker Street.

The thought of Sherlock's caresses being... false. He shies away from it, tucks the thought away, gives himself mental space. He rolls back into his bed sheets, feeling like a fool and a coward for hiding, but he just needs more time.

oOo

Despite Sherlock's best efforts, he cannot erase John Watson.

After John left him that night, Sherlock thought about chasing him down the street in his stocking feet, demanding sense from the doctor. Remarkably, he'd been frozen to the spot as soon as the door slammed and it was long moments later that he found himself upstairs, staring blankly out the window at the empty street below, deducing which direction John would have gone.

He flung himself in the bathroom, scrubbing at his mouth until all tastes of John were vanquished.

It didn't help.

He hasn't stopped thinking of John Watson for one bloody second in the week that they've been parted. He took on a few simple cases, but always, _always_ turned to remark on something to John, only to remember too late that he wasn't by his side. It only made Sherlock angrier at himself, then at John, then at the world in general.

Despite locking the gates to his heart, hateful things keep oozing through the cracks. The memory of John's tears will freeze Sherlock in his tracks for a few seconds before he viciously reigns in his thoughts. A brief remembrance of a tired John, researching at the table, will make him leave the kitchen. John left a pair of boots next to Sherlock's fireplace and he can't bring himself to burn them outright. He drags one of them to his window while he smokes and broods and taps his cigarette ashes into it in petty retribution.

How _dare_ John Watson do this to him? Sherlock feels deceived. He's known about his so-called 'deviancy' from a young age, long enough to know there's nothing wrong with him. His unhappy marriage should be dissolved. John is smarter than this, or so he thought. Maybe he's just as dull as everyone else.

Sherlock flings himself onto his couch for the hundredth time that night. He knows that last part is untrue. John might not be a pinnacle of mental acuity, but he was no dullard. That was the problem, wasn't it? Sherlock was always being surprised by him. It made him interesting when most people faded to boredom within moments of meeting them. John shone all on his own, bright and fierce and so alive, a perfect compliment to Sherlock's wildness, a steady pulse of familiarity and strength for when he might lose himself.

He slams a fist into the wall beside him, the nearby painting clattering on its nail. Deletion was not going to work this time. John Watson embedded himself so far into Sherlock's being that there was no grouting him out. Sherlock would have to do something about it. If he couldn't get rid of him, then he would have to win him back. What was the point of being the smartest man in the room if you couldn't get what you truly wanted?

Nodding to himself, he settles back on the couch, a plan beginning to form. He allows a full-on smirk to stretch his face. When Sherlock decides to play, he wins and John Watson doesn't stand a chance.

oOo

John stares at his book in his sitting room, the evening stretching long and quiet. The staring has gone on for at least an hour at this point as his mind refuses to focus on the text. He keeps re-reading the same passage over and over, hoping to distract himself.

Evelyn went home an hour ago, her chores completed and John settled in for a forgettable evening with Agatha Christie. He sighs and sets it aside, rubbing at his eyes as he slumps further in his chair. Useless. He might as well go to bed.

He pulls himself up, ready to turn off the lights downstairs when there's a crisp knock at his door. Frowning, he pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time – far too late for visitors. The frown stays on his face as he flips on the foyer light with a dim crackle of electricity. There's another impatient knock before he can get to the door and he tugs his dressing gown to tighten it to decency.

“Yes, hold on! I'm coming!”

All annoyance drains away when he opens the door. Sherlock turns on his heel, cool and practiced, not like he had been knocking frantically a moment before.

“Ah. John.”

John loses his voice. He stands there with his hand on the doorknob, not ready. He's not ready!

Sherlock shifts, his hands in his coat pockets.

“May I come in?”

He raises an eyebrow and John just wants him to keep talking. He's missed his voice, the low, smooth rumble of it. He moves to the side to let Sherlock pass and catches a whiff of his cigarettes. His mouth waters without his permission. Oh, but what does one say at a time like this?

Sherlock drops into John's chair without preamble, apparently at ease. John watches him from the doorway to the sitting room, his fists clenched at his side to keep them from trembling. It's like a picture show in his mind's eye, a colorful reel of the last time he saw Sherlock flashing over and over, every lurid detail making him flush and look away from Sherlock's pale gaze.

Thankfully, the detective doesn't push him to speak. He pulls at a thread on John's old chair, stretching out his long legs to cross his ankles. How can he be so calm?

“I have a case.”

John flinches when he speaks, ready for vitriol and feeling silly when he gets none. Is this how it's going to be? Are they going to pretend nothing happened? A sinking sensation envelopes John and he thinks he might be sick, all his 'what ifs' coming back to haunt him.

Sherlock studies his nails and continues speaking.

“There's a party. We need to investigate a money laundering ring. I need backup with me for this. Do you have suitable clothes?”

John's still stuck on the 'we' part of Sherlock's sentence. He pulls his focus and meets Sherlock's gaze, so much sharper and clearer in reality. He swallows past the tightness in his throat and manages a nod, nevermind that Sherlock didn't even ask if John wanted to go. He wants to go.

Sherlock pushes to his feet and walks towards the exit, the one John currently blocks.

“Good.”

He pauses before the doctor and it's suddenly too much for John to look at him. He's got to learn to control himself if Sherlock is going to pretend like nothing happened.

“John.”

Disobedience is not an option with Sherlock's tone. He raises his eyes to meet him face on, his breath stopping in his chest.

Sherlock studies him, eyes sweeping over every nuance of his face. John bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of exactly what Sherlock is seeing. A few fingers raise next to his waist, like Sherlock wants to touch him, but he tucks the fingers in his coat pocket instead. As quickly as the scrutiny appears, it fades, replaced by neutral interest.

“I'll meet you here two nights from now, eight o'clock sharp.”

John wants desperately to say something, to ask Sherlock to stay, for him to let them have it out, either through fists or fucking, he doesn't care. The tension smothers him and he needs to come to some sort of conclusion to this thing between them or he'll go mad. Before he can gather his courage, Sherlock brushes past him, murmuring as he goes.

“Until then.”

His fingers trail across the vulnerable skin at John's wrist and his entire body stiffens at even the barest, possibly accidental contact between them. Sherlock leaves him in his hallway, shocked and aching and even more confused than before.

The next two days of waiting would be hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love putting these boys through the emotional wringer. Hope this all makes sense;; Thanks for reading!
> 
> Thanks again to [Chelsea](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing, she's an A+ duck.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock taps his teeth outside of the Watson house, the last of his cigarette dangling between his fingers. It's 7:58 PM and two nights past, he stormed in and left no room for John to refuse a case with him. Left with too many choices, Sherlock knew John would dither and likely turn down the work, cementing the awkwardness between them, perhaps permanently. The detective could not let that happen.

He starts across the street, gaslights catching the high polish on his best patent leather shoes. A cab waits at the corner for their departure. His silk top-hat is collapsed neatly in the crux of his elbow and he straightens his tail coats before rapping sharply on John's door, his white gloves a stark contrast to the dark wood.

The housemaid answers the door, her manner demure. She steps aside to let him into the house, no questions asked, and Sherlock nods at her before heading to the sitting room he visited a few nights ago. John does not appear. He busies himself at the mantel, then sits, transferring his tapping from his fingers to his heel.

Just as Sherlock's patience begins to strain, a clatter on the stairs draws his attention and he rises, suddenly nervous about his plans for the evening.

John reaches the ground floor with a quick step. Sherlock takes him in – slightly worn tuxedo jacket, buffed oxfords and tilted bow-tie. He nearly walks over to straighten it, not even questioning the intimacy, when the maid comes into view, holding John's top-hat. She fixes the crooked tie with a small smile and dusts off his shoulders before stepping away.

The doctor turns toward Sherlock but fiddles with his cuff links, avoiding his eye.

“I could set my watch by your schedule. Ready to get on with it?”

Sherlock's heart beats faster even to look upon him. He knew it would be trying to see John out of his plain clothes, but he was not expecting his own reactions to seeing John so dressed up. From his pocket square to his ivory waistcoat, John was every inch the gentleman and Sherlock wanted to unwrap him piece by careful piece.

He shakes himself mentally – that's not his place. The remembrance of John's abrupt, hurtful goodbye dampens his ardor and Sherlock swallows, the pain burrowing into the corners of his chest. If John can be unaffected, then so can he. As the doctor slips on his gloves, Sherlock gestures towards the door.

“After you.”

If all went according to schedule tonight, he wouldn't have to restrain himself around the doctor ever again and the burn of John's rejection could be excused as folly and forgotten. Sherlock knows his smile disturbs the maid as they leave, but he loves it when he gets to be clever and the best prize of all awaits him at the end of the night should his cleverness prove true.

He wipes his face blank and settles next to John in the cab, a respectful distance between them and they trundle towards the heart of London.

oOo

John remains hyper aware of Sherlock the entire ride. They stare out their separate windows and John indulges in the mild panic that's been building in his chest since Sherlock showed up on his doorstep two days ago and acted like nothing had occurred between them.

His previous fears that perhaps Sherlock did not feel as deeply as he did reared and sneered at him – not a word about their encounter has been uttered. He sneaks a few stares in the reflection of the window and studies his companion.

In his sleek tailcoat, Sherlock looks ready for a grand party while John's five-year-old tuxedo suddenly feels like something from the last century. The detective tamed his wild curls with pomade, pushing them back to a fashionable part. His long nose and haughty manner were the rage right now, perfectly suited for high society and five course dinners. John fidgets and refocuses on the city, his tongue darting out for a nervous swipe of his lips.

How could someone so utterly different have time for someone like John Watson? They were from completely different worlds. Before, he felt so warm in Sherlock's presence, basking in his brilliance and sharing his happiness as pieces fell into place and cases were solved. The figure beside him might as well be made of stone – cold, motionless, statuesque, and exactly what John pictured Sherlock to be like with other people. With strangers.

His stomach swoops at the idea. Going back to being acquaintances – he couldn't do it. They had to make this work. If pretending like nothing but basic friendship was between them was the only way Sherlock wanted to see him, then John would swallow his afflictions. Even if the flame between them guttered, he would fight with his all to keep it alive.

He closes his eyes and sways with the rocking cab, pushing his mind away from futures that could never be to try and focus on the present.

oOo

Sherlock intentionally holds himself still to keep from touching John. He's close enough to smell his aftershave and he can't resist deducing his dress routine before Sherlock arrived. He craves John's attention and only through an ironclad will does he not turn and demand answers and actions from the doctor in the backseat of a cab.

Nervous energy pools in every joint of his body and he cannot resist tapping his foot silently, ready for them to arrive so he could put the energy to good use. He goes over his plan while they edge nearer, examining the few steps from every angle to ensure perfection.

An obnoxious third cousin received a call from Sherlock five days ago. The simpering idiot was near useless to him except that he stands well-connected in the London social scene. There's not a party that ekes by without his notice and Sherlock needed access to something exclusive, something whispered about at other parties.

His cousin came through with a coveted location, after a promise that dear cousin Mycroft would make time at the Holmes manor for afternoon tea with his cousin in a few weeks time. Sherlock left their second meeting with three scarlet tickets and a great desire to wash his hands of the oily relation until he needed him again.

There was a pass for John, for himself and for Mary.

This particular party happened once a month in the townhouse of a duke. While the money laundering was a fabrication for John's benefit, the location fit perfectly with the idea of aristocracy, ridiculous wealth and ill-repute. Back doorways and secret passwords must be known in order to even find the location and once inside, it promised to be quite the intimate  fête.

With this being a hotbed of elite London socializing, it would be an invitation that Mary would never be able to resist. Sherlock's machinations hinged upon her appearance and while dangling the ticket in front of her was a risk, he knew he had a high margin of success. She would come – she must!

Having the two Watsons at the same party was risky; either of them might see the other before Sherlock could interfere and choose to leave or worse, interact, spoiling his plans. He would need to act quickly once he and John arrived to make sure his evening went smoothly.

If all went according to plan, the doctor would be free of his wife by the end of the night, able to live his own life and make his own choices without the cloak of guilt that smothered him daily. Perhaps he could see Sherlock clearly without the ruins of his marriage filling the space between them.

Sherlock watches John's reflection, weighing risks and victories, and bolsters himself with confidence as their ride pulls to a halt.

oOo

The detective and doctor hand over their tickets to an impassive clerk and arrive at the party. John takes in the sprawling room, surprised at the subdued atmosphere.

Low chaises line the walls with couples filling every velvet inch. Lamps with lace thrown atop them shine on end tables providing the main source of light, casting a rich red glow and leaving the corners shaded. A small dance floor sways with swerving couples in the back corner, a band on a raised platform playing sultry jazz music. Opposite the packed dance floor, a smattering of booths hold more conversation, heads held close to each other in secret talks, a low cloud of smoke hovering above them. Every hand has a drink in it, every person well polished. The back of the room opens with wide French doors, a moonlit balcony overlooking a lush garden.

John swallows as he takes it all in. It feels... intimate. Not the sort of party of he was expecting to be taken to. He glances at Sherlock to find him watching him and he smiles through his discomfort.

“Fairly posh, isn't it? Am I going to find some royals lurking about?”

Sherlock takes his hat and gloves to be passed over to another clerk and smoothly picks up two champagnes from a passing tray. They take a sip as they move further into the room.

“ Posh isn't the word for it. Stuffy, more like.”

John snorts and relaxes a fraction. Trust Sherlock to make even the most fancy party seem below him. He eyes the room with renewed interest and touches his elbow to the detective's arm.

“So where do we begin?”

oOo

Sherlock breathes in relief as he watches John relax. The party flows much as he expected. It was the perfect atmosphere for intimacy, heat, and subdued, passionate confrontations – hopefully ones that ended marriages. He smirks at his secret poet's heart, something he would be mortified for John to find out about. Many of his talents have already been revealed to John, but he enjoys keeping a few things close to his chest. Except the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to bring out his violin, awe the doctor with whole compositions written about him.

He imagines John whispering praise in the light of the fire, the living room hushed and close just for them. As he scans the room, he lets himself think about dragging John to one of the plush couches, planting soft, wet kisses on his jaw until he melts, pliant and happy and free.

Even as he flushes, Sherlock lets these daydreams give him strength. These figments  _ could  _ come true, if he could only find.... Ah!

Mary's blond locks catch his eye from a faraway booth. A man sidles closer to her as he watches and she half-heartedly engages with his heavy flirting. She drinks generously from a glass of red wine and watches the dancers, tapping her delicate fingers against the stem in time with the music.

He knew he needed to move quickly before she spotted him, though they had the advantage of being in an unusual setting. Mary would not be purposely looking for her husband at a place like this. They might hold their anonymity for a few moments more if Sherlock could get John out of the door. He places a hand low on John's back, ignoring the small jump this causes, and steers them towards the opposite wall of Mary's booth.

Sherlock leans forward, as does John, their heads bent in private planning. John patiently watches Sherlock for his instructions and the detective's heart suddenly gives an irregular bleat – had it really been so long ago that John's attention was on him like this? They work so well together, fit so easily into a pattern that is as natural as breathing for both of them. This level of trust in one another had created something beautiful and fascinating in Sherlock's life, surprises every day. Friendship worked for the weak and love was beneath his contempt, but now... Sherlock held John Watson's steadfast companionship. What would he do if he held his heart as well?

He refuses to let fear overtake him now, not at such a crucial moment, and clears his throat, speaking quietly for John.

“We'll need to split apart and survey the room, search for any parties leaving together in twos or threes and disappearing."

John chuckles and Sherlock straightens, affronted and on edge.

“What?”

John touches his mouth as if to hide his smile.

“Well, I imagine at a party like this, people are going to be disappearing in twos for certain, maybe even threes – though I wouldn't know anything about that.”

Sherlock straightens further as he realizes John is  _ embarrassed _ , flushed a deep red high in his cheeks. His own face matches color quickly and he is grateful for the low lighting.

“Oh – Oh well, no. That's not what I meant. If they – look for people in the garden. Search from the balcony as casually as you can manage. They will be all business. Less – whatever else.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably and John sobers, looking towards the open doors at the end of the room.

“Understood.”

Sherlock resists the nervous urge to smooth his hands on his jacket and pointedly does not look at Mary's booth.

“ I'll meet you on the balcony as soon as I'm done in here.”

John nods and slips away, keeping as close to the wall as he can and sipping his drink, the picture of relaxed revelry.

Sherlock gives in just a little and touches his hair quickly, just for something to do with his hands. The anxiety washes over him in increasingly large waves. He sets his near full glass on a nearby table and makes his way to the dance floor, draping his aristocracy around him like a masterclass actor.

Time to enthrall his audience of one.

oOo

The man's cologne wafts in too thick for Mary's taste, his three glasses of scotch blanketing his hot breath against her cheek. She tolerates his platitudes while she waits. This party was young yet and with such a choice group of attendees, there would surely be someone better to come along soon. She would drop him if a better opportunity arose, but for right now, she judges the dresses of the ladies on the dance floor.

Their fringe and high heels flatter their thin frames, the tiaras and silk gloves enhancing their air of untouchable dolls. Mary purchased a new pair of gloves earlier yesterday with her dwindling funds, too proud to go back home and retrieve more money from John. This party was worth the hit to her purse, but now that her thoughts had touched upon her husband, she couldn't stop the flood.

She didn't want to go home. After their row, Mary wasn't sure she even wanted to see John again. Why was she fighting so hard for someone who clearly didn't even want her? She wasn't even certain their few moments of peace and recovery when Mary had nearly drank herself to the grave were worth it. It felt real at the time, a genuine affection and concern from John, but now it crumbled in her mind – a paltry playact in place of a real marriage. Maybe she should have drank another bottle.

It hurt her. It hurt to think that they weren't capable of rebuilding themselves. She hated her past self, the young adventurer who wanted to play at marriage. She takes a bitter gulp of her drink and shoves the glass at her admirer.

“Be a dear and get me another?”

She bats her eyelashes once and he's out of the booth immediately, scrambling to find her another glass.

Settling her chin in her hand, she turns back to the dancers, her thoughts swirling like their many feet.

When did she get like this, so hopeless? Just because her husband was an invert didn't mean that there was anything wrong with her. His problems were not her problems.

Even as she thought them, the words stung her. Was it because she didn't give him children? Was she so repulsive that he would turn to sin to get away from her? Why not other women? Why Sherlock?

She presses her fingers to her forehead, giving herself a headache with all the circling questions that she couldn't answer. She needed to plan, to get herself out of this rut, reclaim her womanhood and her pride in herself. She was tired – tired of feeling like this, tired of the endless one night stands, tired of being  _ tired. _

Mary feels eyes on her and re-focuses on the dance floor. One of the dancers was twirling a woman, his dancing sharp and modern. The blood drains out of her face as she abruptly recognizes him. Sherlock bloody Holmes. A frown immediately replaces her shock, a deep anger welling up inside her. Her man returns with her glass and she drinks deeply as she watches the detective slip away from his partner.

Was John here too? Of course he would be – the ever loyal dog trailing along behind this snotty bastard. She had just enough to drink to make her stand, to make her follow that scarecrow towards the balcony. She would be sure to tell Sherlock Holmes exactly what she thought of him. Knocking him off that high horse would do wonders for her bad mood tonight.

oOo

With Mary successfully ensnared, Sherlock rushes towards the balcony, thankful for his long legs but cursing his thundering heart.

This was it – the crucial moments that would decide John's future happiness. Sherlock almost allows his smile to take over when he sees John's back at the balcony, his solid frame silhouetted in moonlight. He cuts such a dashing figure that Sherlock falters for a second, his courage wavering as John turns to meet him, his hair soft and glowing.

“Sherlock?”

He reaches for John's shoulders as he turns around fully and spins him, John's back now facing the doors, Sherlock leaning against the balcony rail. He allows himself the satisfaction of meeting Mary's gaze before bends down and presses his mouth to her husband's.

oOo

John can't hear, can't breath, over the rush of his own blood. His skin erupts in fire, the nasty shock locking his limbs in place as Sherlock gently plies his mouth with soft, sweet kisses.

So gentle for how violently he's affecting John.

Sherlock touches his long fingers to John's jaw and his mouth drops automatically, wet heat welcoming by default to Sherlock's slick tongue. His heart rattles his chest, his mind shuttering closed as he sucks in a breath through his nose, realizing that his fingers were cramping from how hard he gripped Sherlock's jacket, expensive material crumpling in his claws.

What was Sherlock doing? What was  _ he _ doing? What if someone saw them? Would they be arrested? Does this mean he feels the same? Can he really?

John's thoughts quickly narrow down from societal worries to his own well being as he allows the slow exploration of his mouth. Within seconds of the kiss starting, he relaxes – he can feel the answers to his questions in Sherlock's touch. He feels the same, that's all that matters. John can sort himself out later. Who cares if anyone sees them? In this moment, he wants the entire world to see them. John Watson in a rare moment of true bliss!

He surges forward, returns Sherlock's affection, a quiet moan slipping free. He unwinds his fingers and moves his grip to Sherlock's beautiful wrists, where his hands are gripping John's face in reverence. The noises of the party fade back in and Sherlock reluctantly pulls away, their shared breath hot and panted between their swollen lips.

A glass shatters behind them and John jumps, tightening his grip on Sherlock's wrists before pure panic overtakes him and he whips around.

Standing in the doorway is his wife, the shock evident on her pale face, her wine glass dropped and splintered from her lifeless fingers.

oOo

The feeling soaring through Sherlock's veins feels so similar to the work that he scares himself. John  _ kissed him back _ . He can’t remember a time when he felt this happy, this thrilled with the idea of tomorrow. The sensation radiating from his chest threatens to overwhelm him and he realizes he’s been holding his breath for too long. He finally looks up and remembers Mary, his head dizzy and his heart full, drunk on John Watson.

Mary saw the whole thing. His plan worked perfectly! If he were less restrained, he would jump in place, but he could not distract John in this moment.

Now! Now was when John would realize that Sherlock desperately wanted him – no,  _ needed _ him by his side and now that his wife knew, there would be no more secrets between them. They could part ways, John could come with him, they would work so  _ well  _ together.

There goes Mary – she turns on her heel and flees. Sherlock barely pays attention, vibrating with impatience for John to turn around. After a few quiet moments, when the doctor stays turned from him, Sherlock reaches out for his shoulder.

“John -”

John slaps his hand away with a sharp crack, his back staying turned.

Sherlock withdraws his hand immediately, blatantly confused.

“ John?”

Then does he notice the straight line of John's shoulders, the tension pouring off of him in shockwaves. Something dark and heavy settles in Sherlock's stomach, a creeping doubt as he raises his hand once more for John.

“I...”

When John speaks, Sherlock's blood runs cold.

“This was not your choice to make, Sherlock.”

He swallows, the railing digging into his spine. John keeps his back to him, his body completely still except for the hint of ragged breaths.

“You knew she would be here.”

“I gave her a ticket.”

The words slip out in his shocked state and he immediately regrets them. John turns then, his face a perfect picture of fury.

“You what?”

“I... wanted her here.”

Sherlock sees an opportunity to explain himself and grasps it desperately.

“ I wanted her to see us. I wanted her to see that you're not meant for her, you're meant for  _ me.  _ Don't you see, John? I fit with you so completely. John, I – I've never felt like this before. I am willing to go to any length to keep you, to cherish you, can't you see what I've done? I've gifted you your freedom – she has no claim on you. I needed her to see what we share, what we can be, what I want us to be. I did this for you!”

The quiet man before him frightens Sherlock and he can't look away from his face. The cold anger mixes with genuine anguish at Sherlock's words, the heart of the man battling with the injustice of the moment.

“ Sherlock –  _ you took this choice from me _ .”

He can't understand this. Sherlock can't make sense of what John means and John obviously is not understanding him.

“What do you mean?”

oOo

John's blood pumps for an entirely different reason than before. He alternates hot and cold for a few seconds as he watches his wife turn from him, her heels crunching on glass before she disappears.

Sherlock's words wash over him in a clumsy tangle of honesty, so much truth that it burns him, adds fuel to his fire and despair. How dare Sherlock take this choice from him? His wife was his business, his problem to deal with, his responsibility. Just like every other instance in their time together, Sherlock had put himself first, made sure that he was the center of attention and left John out of his plans, assuming he knew what was best for the feeble-minded little doctor tagalong.

John feels his throat closing in a panic attack, his shell shock flaring so harshly that he's afraid he'll hurt someone and soon if he doesn't get away from here. The balcony looks too tempting and he can't process the tears on his cheeks or the dagger that Sherlock drives into his heart with his words – too little, too late. If he had only  _ told _ him this, without involving Mary! Time. He needed more time!

He shuts his eyes and Sherlock questions him, his voice quiet, as meek as John has ever heard it.

“Sherlock, you need to leave me alone.”

He swallows around the constriction of his lungs, the burning in his gut.

“I need to be alone. Leave me alone.”

When Sherlock doesn't move, he opens his eyes, bares every bit of anger and betrayal he can muster in his gaze.

“ Please.”

He watches Sherlock's face crumple, then smooth out to perfect placidity.

“As you wish.”

The detective sidesteps him, heading for the exit, and John feels his world going with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2015 everyone! Thanks to Chelsea for her beta-ing skills again *mwah* 
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr!](http://www.unknownsister.tumblr.com)


	15. Chapter 15

John stares at the neat stack of notebooks on his desk.

Thousands of words written about a brilliant detective's adventures sprawls across the pages, carefully penned by the doctor's patient hand. He runs that same hand over the smooth leather, lost in thought.

He neglected them since he last saw Sherlock. It felt wrong to write about him after their last meeting, a bright bloom of betrayal and confusion in his breast when he thinks about it - even now, months later.

Sherlock attempted no contact with him, taking John's request to heart and leaving him well and truly alone. John avoided Baker Street, remembering what happened the last time he ran to Sherlock's door with his passions high. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was there or in the Orient or America and John tried not to think about it too hard.

At one point, a few weeks after the balcony, he had considered destroying the notebooks, but as soon as he picked them up to toss them in the fire, he remembered all the hours he had poured into the journals, all his thoughts and – John allows the concession now – his heart. It felt like burning his relationship with Sherlock to destroy those pages. He didn't want that – did he?

After the initial shock of their parting, John came home to an empty house, not sure if he even wanted to find Mary. A few unsure days later he received a telegram – she was in Paris, alive, with friends. No response needed, she would contact him again.

The telegram surprised him. He expected explosive screaming matches that ended with him in prison, not a calm message from across the channel. She left no way to get back in contact with her so he had let the matter lie for now. Introversion settled in and he ignored everything but his work. Even that was mechanical and necessary, another function in the life of John Watson to keep going forward, one step at a time.

He was often lost in thought these days, drifting, trying to sort through the mess of his life. The task was monumental and he loathed feeling sorry for himself. He still had visits from Greg, but even those moments were overshadowed in John's silent distress as all the captain wanted to talk about was his wedding preparations and how his family was taking the news of his upcoming nuptials.

Greg knew something was wrong, but carefully avoided matters of home life for the doctor, for which John remained grateful. Sherlock was avoided too and John wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He takes a seat at his desk, eyes unfocused on the journals. At one point, he entertained the idea of publishing them, perhaps with Sherlock's permission, though that would take some wrestling and plenty of disdainful comments. He smiles, pulling the top notebook towards him and flipping open to the middle. A case of note that John was particularly proud of was in mid flow, the two of them working together so easily in John's neat, flowing script.

He loses himself in his own words, memories of Sherlock bringing him warmth as a new layer of snow drifted down in the cold London night.

oOo

Christmas comes and goes. Mary’s telegram sits in his office desk at work, well handled and re-folded until the creases were soft. He tries not to worry about her too much, keeping his thoughts about her calm and neutral, a perpetual waiting state until she contacts him again.

John gives Evelyn the holidays off and spends his hours in front of his fireplace, chair pulled close and ankles crossed. A few of the notebooks lie on the floor beside his seat, recently thumbed through again. As John has been re-reading his work, he's allowed himself to examine his relationship with Sherlock, the growing trust between them that John had written about himself.

His words offer the truth that he willfully ignored for the months that he knew the detective – how much he admired him, how valued their friendship was for him, his absolute trust in the other man. These were qualities that one would look for in a lifelong companion, be they friend or wife. The idea gives him pause and he shifts in his chair, crossing his ankles the other way.

He was alone here, what was the harm in thinking it?

He could never marry Sherlock – the law prohibited them from expressing even the smallest bit of heartfelt affection – but he can easily see himself at 221B for the rest of his life. He takes a deep breath, allowing himself to think of them solving cases together until they were too old to do so. Sherlock would probably still sneak off for the odd case or they could solve them through letters, their lives full with helping others and satisfying their mutual need for adventure.

John knows he might be presumptuous in thinking Sherlock would even want something like that, especially with how terribly John's treated him twice now. Sherlock just didn't think when it came to matters of the heart – he just did whatever came to his mind first, blustering through in the same way he enters a room. But hadn't John done that as well when he came to Sherlock's door, kissing him on the front step and inviting his passion with a willing, if confused, heart? Wasn't the honesty in Sherlock's confession and ardor refreshing after years of lies, from his wife and to himself?

Whatever conclusion this mess came to, John at least needed to be truthful with himself. If he saw Sherlock Holmes again, it would be an honest meeting, no more lying to himself or to the detective or to Mary. He couldn't live like that, even if it meant losing the people he – loved.

He finally makes himself look at that night when he kissed Sherlock in his front hallway. In the aftermath, he had blamed himself, then Sherlock, then himself again, in a never-ending feedback of misplaced blame. But as John forces himself to examine his feelings, what Sherlock did afterward, and how John behaved to the people in his life, it calms some of his distress.

He had asked for it, had pleaded for Sherlock to take him in hand, for the pleasure only the detective could give him. He had gone to Sherlock in the first place, seeking true solace with the only person he knew was capable of giving it to him.

Because he trusted Sherlock and he had turned away when Sherlock displayed the same trust in him.

It shames John and it simmers low in his gut, a constant reminder of how well and truly he had wrecked their chances. Sherlock left him, just like John asked and now the doctor has absolutely no idea how to fix things between them, or between him and Mary.

Sherlock tried to fix things in absolutely the wrong way. Sherlock had purposefully taken a simplistic view of his marriage to ensure that Mary would be out of the picture. She certainly was gone for now, but John can't imagine that his own reaction was what Sherlock had been waiting for. He wonders what Sherlock expected – for John to cheerfully wave goodbye to his wife as she ran away in pain? Perhaps jump right back into his arms? The hurt from that night has dulled with the passing of a few months, though it is no less real.

That kiss comes back to him over and over again, in every waking thought and dream. He lets himself focus on the elation, the relief that Sherlock returned his feelings, separating the pain of Sherlock's choices and the shock and joy he brought with his words. Sherlock had said he wanted to cherish John, lay claim to him and John realizes that's what he wants as well. How could he not? He's already too far gone to worry about how much trouble they could get into, and honestly, it wasn't like they didn't get into enough trouble as it was.

His main stumbling block was his marriage, still in full effect, though they were both now guilty of adultery. Inspecting his heart shows great sadness with a flood of relief that Mary knew about them now. That was not the way Mary should have her accusations proved. It had been disrespectful and shocking, no matter how they felt about each other. No matter what deviancy John permitted in himself, he was still a gentleman and his consideration of her well-being was still something he took into account, even now in front of his lonely fire.

He needs to find her, speak with her in some way, to clear the air between them once and for all. Only then could he find Sherlock, try to fix what he could and... be with him. John's not certain what all that entails, but he was never one to turn down a challenge.

oOo

Mary sips a cup of morning tea on a balcony overlooking the Seine. She hears her friends downstairs, chattering in a pleasant mix of French and English. Her French skills were rusty, but serviceable, and she had been enjoying her time in the heart of France.

While Paris wakes up below her, she marvels at the differences in London and this great city. It flows in different beats altogether, hums at a different pitch and makes her feel changed as well. Several months here have given her perspective on her life and what brought her here in the first place.

Sherlock confirmed what she already suspected was between him and her husband. The shock of seeing the reality had been ugly and painful; she fled from the party, into the night. Wandering alone was not the safest course of action, but she paced the streets, heading with no intention to nowhere in particular, too shocked to even weep. She wondered then if this was what John's shell shock felt like, the sense that she was lost and would never be found again.

When she came to, she was back at her temporary residence, already packing her suitcase and thinking of where she would get the money for a ticket to the continent.

She eventually found herself here, wrapped in warm clothing with a hot drink, allowing peace to settle over her with perspective as a new snow drifts and covers everything in white. Removing herself from London helped her a great deal – what held her there anymore? The party scene in Paris swung much the same as London, with better fashion. No family would see her again after her initial eloping to John. And John – well. Her thoughts wind back to her younger days, when she kept her head in the clouds, dreaming of adventure and a man to take her away from it all.

Yet here she was now, older and wiser, definitely more determined. Her life ended up a shambles, crippled to the point of pity by betrayals on both sides of the fence and she was ready to be done with it. She didn't need a husband, though she still dreams of a child from time to time. She could rely on herself to make things exciting, to rebuild from their mutual destruction and make herself whole again. Paris was a lot more forgiving to a woman on her own and Mary knew she could make something of herself here without sacrificing her health and happiness.

But even now, she could not forget John. With contemplation on her younger days, she thought of his youth too. The sad soldier tried his damnedest to build her happiness, even as the water rose around his neck. There had been hope for them once and with this newfound peace, Mary feels shades of guilt at her actions. She thinks over all the times that John turned a blind eye, bought her new dresses, faded further and further away from her as she sought her kicks elsewhere, when he needed help and she ignored his silent call.

John on the balcony was a changed man. His happiness now came part and parcel with a detective and even if she didn't understand what went on between them, she could see what that man meant to John Watson. Though she doesn't like to think of their passionate embrace in the moonlight, she remembers the sigh of relief from her husband, the joy rolling off him in exuberant waves, like he couldn't believe his luck.

A small smile finds its way through her deep contemplation and she makes a decision. One final thing she could do for her husband to try and fix things, to end their time together on a positive note and have a solid building block for her new life. She finishes her tea and dusts the snow off her shoes before heading inside to write a letter.

oOo

In the spring, John receives two pieces of post and sits in his den to read them. The first is an invitation with beautiful, but simple calligraphy, inviting John to the wedding of Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade in Ilminster, Somerset. He already knew about the wedding, of course, having agreed to be Greg's best man without hesitation. Happiness for his friends warms him without the bitterness it used to and he sets the cream paper aside.

The second bundle causes him to wrinkle his brow in confusion. It's a large, brown envelope, addressed to him, but with no return address. He uses his pen knife to slice through the top and dumps out a bundle of tied letters on his lap. Carefully untying them reveals letters to Mary, from a masculine hand.

After flipping through one of them, he realizes they are love letters, written throughout the years of their marriage, from several different men. More confused than hurt, he drops them to the floor, bewildered why someone would send these to him.

On top of the stack lies a letter with his name. He hesitates before picking it up, not sure if the contents would do him any good. His curiosity wins out as he slices it open, reading carefully.

_John,_

_You hold in your hands the proof of my adultery and the dissolution of our marriage. In the English court, this will be sufficient evidence in a case against me for divorce. I have already filed the necessary paperwork and have sent along things for you to sign at our lawyer's. Please see him at your earliest convenience._

_While the contents of these letters might be hurtful, I want you to know that I loved you and that I continue to wish for your happiness, even if we are to part. I cannot pretend to understand your relationship with Sherlock Holmes, but consider these letters a parting gift from me for your new life together. I hold no ill will for him or for you._

_I will not be in contact with you again, but know that I am already a happier woman and I regret that we could not build the life we dreamt about together. You showed me great kindness, John Watson, even when I did not deserve it. You deserve happiness as much as I, and you can find it with that man. Take your second chance and I will take mine._

_Good luck,_

_Mary_

If John had not already been sitting, he would have lost feeling in his legs. He holds the letter loosely, staring out his parlor window until Evelyn comes in to tidy up, stirring him from his thoughts. For the first time in years, John thinks of Mary and feels happiness. He carefully folds the paper, turning over the contents of the letter as he gets on with the rest of his day.

oOo

In May, John stands before the lovely Hooper House, admiring the summer gardens in the cheery morning sunshine. The hint of spring lingers in the air and oppressive heat has not yet blanketed the countryside. It is perfect weather for a wedding.

The new tuxedo John bought for the occasion rests stiff on his shoulders and he fidgets, nervous about how this day might affect him. He focuses on his happiness for his friends, the pure bliss on the groom's face at their meal the night before as he chatted about his bride to be. He tucks away any gloomy thoughts about what transpired here a year ago, about meeting Sherlock and how long it had been since he last saw that curly mop of hair or heard his voice.

John still hasn't found the bravery to trek to Baker Street, nor to ask after him via Greg, who might have heard news from Mrs. Hudson. It all seemed so roundabout – if Sherlock had wanted to see him again, he would have sought John out, surely? While John had come to understand himself over the past few months, he had yet to tell anyone. Would Sherlock even want to hear him anymore?

He straightens his suit in the full length mirror and gives himself a nod. Time to go to a wedding.

oOo

Greg was so handsome and happy at the wedding, John was proud to stand by his side. They both were slightly misty at the sight of Miss Hooper coming down the aisle, her dress resplendent and her bouquet of yellow flowers as bright as her smile. They both fared better than Mrs. Hudson who boo-hooed so deeply into her handkerchief at every turn of the ceremony that the guest next to her had consoled her with pats on the shoulder every few moments.

John took Greg's cane as he was asked to kiss the bride. He cupped Molly's face with such tenderness, it echoed of a kiss John had received once and he had to look away while the guests clapped and cheered. They broke the kiss when Molly couldn't contain her giggling and Greg grabbed her around the waist, hugging her to his side and beaming with joy.

The reception was lively and tasteful, with good food and smiling faces. Mrs. Hudson saved him a seat at her table and they caught up from the last time they had seen each other, chatting and eating while guests danced and the party wore on. Lord Mycroft made an appearance later, relaying his good wishes for the happy couple at their table that they received with gladness. He came by their table too, to speak to Mrs. Hudson, but no words were spoken to John. Mrs. Hudson frowned when he left without acknowledging the doctor, but John shook his head and smiled at her, offering to grab her another drink.

The guests that were staying at the Hall started to wind their way back there and the Lestrades bid everyone good night. John escorted Mrs. Hudson back to the house with her hand on his arm, feeling more content than he had in months. If she seemed a little sad when she looked at him, John could ignore that and if he had casually glanced around for a certain tall, dark haired man at the wedding, well, he could ignore that too.

oOo

John comes down for an early breakfast. He hadn't slept well, though no nightmares plagued him. He added it up to sleeping in a house that wasn't his own and let the matter lie. He sought coffee in the kitchen first, surprised to find Molly up so early.

The new Mrs. Lestrade sits at the worn kitchen table, her hair cut to a fashionable bob. It suits her, framing her gentle face in soft curves. She tucks the hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture for all that she looks calm as she pats the seat of the chair next to her.

John hesitates, but concedes, settling and folding his hands in front of him on the nicked tabletop. He waits for Molly to speak but she watches him with warm eyes instead. In the silence between them, he begins to feel slightly exposed, all of his secrets threatening to spill out under Molly's assessing gaze.

Instead, she clears her throat and folds her hands like John's on the table.

“Sherlock came by yesterday.”

Even the mention of his name is enough to tighten the muscles of John's stomach. He keeps his voice light.

“Oh?”

He doesn't miss Molly's shrewd look.

“Yes, he gave his felicitations. Rather forced, but him coming by at all was more than I expected.”

That startles a small chuckle out of John and Molly smiles. He clears his throat.

“Yes, that is an odd thing for him to do.”

“Perhaps not so odd anymore. He's been staying in the countryside for a few months now, but not under Mycroft's orders, I was happy to hear. He's been by several times.”

John tries not to let his eagerness show. He tempers his enthusiasm with the sharp pain in his chest at how ruined things were between them.

“He's been relying on Mrs. Hudson for whatever meals he takes. She says that he's been... kinder, on certain days. On others, he's the worst terror in the world, worse than she's ever seen him. She said it's a wild hurt though, not quite the bored anger she's seen since his childhood. I can't vouch for those moods as he stays well enough away during them and heavens knows we've been busy enough here with the wedding.”

John watches as Molly looks out the kitchen window while she rambles, her gaze unfocused as she thinks about her odd erstwhile neighbor.

“I could see the change in him when he dropped by. He wouldn't stay for the actual wedding yesterday, but he waited for Greg to come in from the gardens. He was smiling in his own way but he was... sad. I've known him so long and he thinks that I can't see it, but he was. Is. Very much so.”

She turns her brown eyes on him and they are so sharp with perception that John has to look away.

“I'll not pretend to know any details, John, but I want you to know that I consider you family now. Greg has always thought of you as the brother he never had and your bond formed in stronger stuff than most men. What's mine is his and what's his is mine, including his friends.”

The burn of tears well in the corners of John's eyes, but he refuses to acknowledge them. It's been a lonely few months, even as he healed and he doesn't realize just how long it's been since someone touched him until Molly lays a gentle hand atop his own.

“You're sad too. Greg told me what happened with your wife, but if she's gone, then it's time for you to look out for yourself. Only you can make your own happiness, John, and you deserve that for yourself.”

He nods, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“I won't tell you what to do – I can't – but just know that Greg and I love you, that we want you to find peace and that you're always welcome here, no matter what.”

He finally looks up and sees the understanding on Molly's face, the unstated truths that she's not relaying. Both she and Greg obviously have their hints about what transpired between he and Sherlock. Though they might be considered undesirable deviants in certain social circles, the Lestrades evidently do not feel that way and John's heart beats faster with unbounded love for the couple.

He lets his gratitude show on his face, a warm, genuine smile coming to him as naturally as breathing. Molly returns it and as he stands, coming to a decision, he leans down to give her gentle kiss on the cheek. He whispers for her:

“Thank you, Molly.”

She pats the side of his head, her smile a little watery now, and shoos him out the door as he straightens. He slips out the back, through the gardens and across the field, heading to Holmes House.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing to a close finally! Thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> A note about divorce in England during the 1920s - it was really hard to do! 
> 
> _In the 1920s and 1930s, English law did not allow for divorce by mutual consent, but rather required proof of adultery, or violence by one party; misconduct by both parties could lead to the divorce being refused. Divorce was seen as a remedy for the innocent against the guilty... [T]he law strictly prohibited "collusion" by the parties. This could extend to any sort of negotiation between them. An official—the King's Proctor—was charged with seeking out any evidence of the parties working together to secure a divorce._
> 
> There's some more info on this at wikipedia from a [book](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_Deadlock) arguing against the insane laws of divorce at the time.
> 
> Thanks to [Chelsea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66) for her faithful betaing <3 
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://unknownsister.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

Warm spring wind shifts the branches above Sherlock in the Holmes' gardens. He touches a finger to his tongue and flips a page of the book in his lap, propped carelessly on bent knees, his torso horizontal on his small bench. The low hedges in the front offer a shade of secrecy and he finds himself out here often, too restless to stay in his cramped rooms, too listless to explore the countryside.

The wooden benches spread through the garden are tucked in nooks by the winding path and this spot is a revisited favorite. It gives him a perfect view of the steps that lead to the entrance, Holmes House looming behind them. The tree here is splendid, an old oak that offers shade and something solid for Sherlock to lean against. Sometimes he forgoes the benches altogether and sits amongst the roots and the dirt. It helps to keep him grounded when he drifts, as he was wont to do lately.

He barely pays attention to the words on the page as they slip together, his mind acres away and dwelling on a happy wedding that took place the day before. Molly and Greg suited each other, even he must admit. Their genuine delight in each other made him ache. For much of his childhood and adolescence, his solitude was an accepted fact, enforced by other children and his own intellect. His poor personality followed and it became normal to be alone. But for the first time in Sherlock's life, he wanted to rid himself of his loneliness. He sought companionship despite his natural reluctance. His isolation was a work in progress.

Molly and Greg offered companionship in his youth, their insistence to play and lack of judgment warming him to them, even if he never told or showed them. Seeing them a few days ago, beyond content in their nuptials, made Sherlock want to sneak over again, be invited into their lives like they had done before.

He flips another page and nearly tears the corner off. Why should they invite him in? Why does he want to be invited at all? Being alone was never a burden as much, but that was because he had never had a constant friend before John. Now he knew what he was missing.

The stilted visits to Hooper House always ended briefly and he always left feeling better and worse, like scratching a healing wound. He wanted to see them together, to know about this aspect of life that had never interested him before. A truly happy couple. He only closely studied the unhappy ones before. It made him feel like a sneak, creeping in on their happiness like a dark, unwanted cloud.

This was no way to live, he knew. Hiding in the country while London roared on in the distance was no way to spend his time, but he wasn't ready to head back yet. When he returned to London, it would be as a well-oiled machine, one not fueled by John Watson. Sherlock wanted to expunge him from his life in order to function again, despite how poorly this plan had proceeded before.

Thus he isolated himself at his ancestral home for months because the lie wouldn't stick. He didn't want to get rid of John, he knew. He just needed to convince himself that he wanted to. The thoughts ran circles around themselves in his head and distracting himself with chemistry and books and long walks with his own company did very little to keep him from going a little mad.

He sighs, closing the book and dropping it without care on the path beside him, his long fingers brushing the grass as he lets his arm loll. Leaning back, he stretches the other arm behind him, propping his head in the crook of his arm against the tree, turning his face up towards the sun.

Much as he was loathe to admit it, Sherlock knew his heart was broken. The discovery of having such a weakness took so long a time to process that he was _still_ not sure he had all the working components of a normal human heart. After all, was something so natural to others of his species supposed to cause so much pain? His fingers drift to his chest, pressing a palm to the gentle thrumming. He swore that on some nights, when his emotions were high and the restlessness was unbearable, that his heart was a foul beast in his breast, wounded and bleeding and lashing against his ribs to be freed.

He hated it and if he could release his heart to never feel again, he would do so without question.

He curls his fingers inward, resting his fist on his chest and frowning. Would the pain of losing John be something that could be erased? He often worries about John becoming a scar on his mind, much like the soldier's shoulder, something that would remind him of the doctor for the rest of his life. If he buried himself in cases and criminals, would John ever fade from him? The hurts of his childhood, though not exactly the same thing, had paled considerably with the passing years, though memories still stung him in ways he would never admit. Perhaps John could become that too, in time – a quiet reminder, but not the master of his thoughts as he was now.

How dare John do to this him? His own words from that night on the balcony fly back in his face:

_I wanted her to see that you're not meant for her, you're meant for **me**. I fit with you so completely. I've never felt like this before. I am willing to go to any length to keep you, to cherish you, can't you see what I've done?_

Sherlock had done plenty of thinking of his own during their months apart. Many sleepless nights, he wished he had never said those words at all. He let himself be eaten alive with shame every time he thought about how much of himself he had exposed to another person and how that vulnerability had been repaid.

Bored of himself, Sherlock straightens, readying to stand. He leans down to pick up his book and as he tucks the slim volume in his elbow, he feels eyes on him. Looking towards the entrance to the garden, he sees John Watson standing on the steps, face sombre as he gazes back.

For a long moment, neither move. Sherlock races through an observational check of his surroundings – he's not dreaming, though he sleeps so little, he might be having a waking dream. He sees the man before him in his dreams every night, a fantasy of what he wants and perhaps his fevered dreaming had come true if he dozed off on the bench. He waits, unsure, fidgeting with the book in his arm and not taking his eyes off John.

oOo

John cannot take another step just yet. His breath halts in his chest as he watches Sherlock stretch on his bench, his face dappled by the leaves above him. He's lost weight since John last saw him, the shadows on his cheeks too pronounced for the doctor's liking. He continues in the slightly clinical analysis of the man before him, keeping mental and physical distance while he waits for Sherlock to say the first word. He lost some of his courage as soon as their eyes met and the short walk to Holmes House where he worked up his nerve seems ages ago instead of minutes.

Ever the more impatient of the two, Sherlock breaks focus first, turning on his heel and stalking further into the garden. The spell snaps and John shakes his head, trying to remember every moment that led to this one. The fierce joy he feels in Sherlock's presence overwhelms all else and John knows he deserves this happiness as much as Sherlock does. He's convinced they need each other and as he watches the detective wander off, his gut seizes while his resolve hardens. He can do this; he can fix the rift between them. Leaving things jagged is not an option and though he knows he doesn't deserve forgiveness, he has to try at the very least. Time to stop running away. He quickly descends the steps and chases after the other man.

“Sherlock! Wait!”

oOo

  
Sherlock closes his eyes at the sound of John's voice. He feels melodramatic and _angry_ , unexpected emotions at John's sudden reappearance. His heart beats too hard, his breath comes too short and he lets his legs lead him, uncaring at the moment about whatever John has to say. More denials would break him now, he's not ready. After such crippling blows to his inner defenses over the last year, Sherlock needs time to build them back up and John has come too soon.

There's no way to lose John in the garden, though Sherlock tries his damnedest. He ducks behind trees, hops the shorter hedges, not even noticing the absence of his book in his haste. There's nothing to stop him from going on forever, leaving behind this entire mess. If he can reach the woods at edge of their property, he can hide there, curl himself on the forest floor and stay, dark and cool and quiet.

His arm yanks backward as he lifts a foot to clamber across another hedge. John's grab unbalances him and he wobbles uncertainly, stretching to plant his foot on the ground. John grips him below his elbow and they settle, the doctor's fingers a burning brand. He snatches back his arm, caught for the moment, ready to flee at a moment's notice. He hides in the best way he can by turning his face away. It doesn't stop him from hearing the quick breaths John takes, the rustle of his trousers against the grass. He can't stop his mind from putting together a picture of the man before him, his neck burning with the effort of holding still and not drinking him in.

“Sherlock.”

His will bends like metal at the forge, so strong before and now soft before the burning brightness of the man beside him. Sherlock can barely stand to look at him, but when he does, the emotion on John's face wipes his mind blank and he stutters to regain his mental footing.

The doctor looks grimly determined, but oddly... at peace. No more storms behind his eyes, no more heavy lines of guilt and sadness shadowing his face. For a moment, Sherlock tries to determine the cause, understand yet another part of John. He stays caught, searching John's face before he realizes he's holding a hand out to Sherlock.

He looks down to see his book, smudged with dirt, but intact. John gestures with it, obviously wanting Sherlock to take it.

“You dropped it while you were – you dropped it back there.”

Sherlock takes it slowly, staring at the numeric cover so he doesn't have to stare at John. Mathematics makes more sense than love. His fingers dig into the spine; perhaps he can draw out the logic in the slim tome, bring calm and distance to the moment. He can almost hear the doctor straightening his shoulders in preparation for words Sherlock does not want to listen to.

“Right. I came here today to tell you something, something that's been on my mind for many months.”

He eyes drift to John's feet, trying not to concentrate on the determined lilt of his voice.

“I've had a lot of time to... Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me, please.”

Sherlock is helpless to refuse. He hates how easily he obeys, automatically lifting his head to face him. John's voice wavers as he takes a step closer to Sherlock and the detective clutches to his anger, determined not to be hurt again.

“These past months have been strange. I've had a lot of time to think about the past year and who I am, what I've done, what I can be. I don't know how we got to this point, I really don't. One day you were my patient, the next you were the most important person in my life.”

Sherlock's chest seizes. To hear these words from John makes his ears ring, and yet he frowns, not giving in, watching the frustrated confusion he so often feels himself spread across John's face.

“I've come to realize I am... incomplete. I might have been for a long time, since the war. When I came home, I didn't know where to anchor myself. I was told to put down my gun and pick up a child, settle in. I've tried that – doesn't suit me very much, does it?”

He allows a small smile at John's self-depreciating chuckle. He drops it as he looks to John's hand, still half-reaching for him, and he interrupts.

“You're getting a divorce.”

John swallows but doesn't deny the claim. It's the doctor's turn to look down and he stretches out his fingers, flipping his hand over to display the pale ring of skin where his band used to rest. He clears his throat and speaks softly.

“Mary filed. She sent in the evidence and wrote our lawyer. I've not seen her since that night. She's in Paris with friends.”

Sherlock hums, but his mind races. John is free.

“I think she might have known I was incomplete too. We fit together because we liked the idea of each other. I've known for a very long time that we weren't meant to be; it was my duty to stay with her. But over these months, I thought often on duty, but what has that word ever brought me? Loyalty, integrity, propriety – nothing but misery. I don't care. She's starting over and I want to as well.”

John finally takes the last step to Sherlock, not daring to touch yet, both their bodies lined with tension. Sherlock couldn't look away from John's face if he tried. He's never seen John so handsome. His eyes burn with conviction, his jaw strong as he steels himself. The wind sweeps over them in a short gust, ruffling his fringe, the sunlight golden on his skin, and Sherlock tracks the movement of his throat as he takes a dry swallow.

“I need you, Sherlock Holmes. I know I don't deserve even your passing glance after how I've treated you, and for that I am eternally sorry. But I am willing to be by your side, however you'll have me, for as long as you'll have me.”

Sherlock rears back, overwhelmed. He walks to the nearest bench, dropping to the seat like his strings had been cut. John makes no move to follow him, watching him while barely breathing. Sherlock can see the nervous sweat at his temples, above his upper lip.

He swipes his hand over his face briefly, clutching his book so tightly, he fears for the safety of the binding. He sets it aside and glares at it.

He decided ages ago that he would no longer pursue John Watson in any way, shape, or form. But John had come to him this time. What did that mean? Had John not been vulnerable with him in return? Where was this anger he had held onto all these months supposed to go? He needed _more time._

More time. The candle lit in his mind, he cautiously circles the phrase, turning it to understand it differently. He leaves the book and studies John, still silent and subdued before him, looking braced for rejection. Perhaps the same was true for John. When Sherlock had orchestrated the evening on the balcony, every movement was on a set schedule, every play set in stone before hand. Except for John's reaction. Sherlock leapt with both feet forward to the next logical step without ever considering that John wasn't ready. Sherlock had decided he was ready and that was good enough for the both of them.

A conversation with John, months and months ago, comes back to him. Sherlock brought John back to Baker Street, nervous and excited for the doctor to see where he lived and worked, even if he couldn't explain why. He tried to stop him from going back to Mary, even so early on, causing a row, but John had soothed things between them before he left.

_“You can't tell me what I can and cannot feel. That's not how friendships work. Friends can help fix problems for each other, lend a sympathetic ear, but you can't command what you think I should be doing or not doing or what you think I feel.”_

Oh, but they were so much more than friends now, even if they pretended like they weren't. Even if Sherlock sometimes, in his darkest moments, wished he had never met John at all. Did the same rule apply to lovers? Is that what they were meant to be? He had commanded John to act in a certain way and was burned by his hypothesis gone dead wrong.

_“You took this choice from me.”_

How often had John's words kept him from peace? What choice had there been except the right one? The choice to be with Sherlock? Sitting on this bench, as some part of him scrambles in panic, he wants to take things slow, reverse the hurts between them. He wants to move in sync with John, take his time with him like he had never done with anything else in his life before. John is offering that here, admitting his weakness and telling Sherlock in plain words that he needed a piece to complete him.

He needed Sherlock.

_"You're meant for me."_

He blinks rapidly as John comes to sit beside him on the bench. After the longest moment of Sherlock's life, he reaches over and lays a hand next to Sherlock's on the bench, his body tilted in his seat to take in Sherlock fully. The doctor clears his throat again, his voice scratchy and barely audible.

“I cannot promise that things will be easy between us, Sherlock. Even if you wish to remain friends alone, I've accepted that I will cherish you as more than a friend, more than a brother, for the rest of my life. You've changed me, irreversibly, and I cannot go back to how I was before. Please don't send me away, Sherlock.”

John bridges the gap between them, grasping Sherlock's fingers while the detective helplessly looks on, petrified.

“My life became color when you looked at me. I've been so unhappy for so long, lost in the fog. I've wasted _so much time_ , Sherlock. I refuse to waste another second.”

oOo

John feels like he's run a marathon. His heart threatens to climb his throat, his mouth dry as cotton. His fingers clench too hard on Sherlock's, but he can't seem to let go. The indecision and fear on the detective's face ramps up his own insecurities and he struggles to find peace. If Sherlock voices rejection, John must bring himself to heel. It's as if all the calm he struggled to find in the past months were only hidden beneath the snow of the season and now the frenzied spring was bursting forth from him, uncovering all.

His eyes slip closed, willing himself to calm. He laid his heart out for Sherlock's judgement and had said what he could to convince the other man of his sincerity.

He startles at warm contact on his face, Sherlock's calloused fingertips resting on his cheek. Opening his eyes reveals not refusal on the other man's face, but fear remains. He watches Sherlock struggle to speak. Sherlock drops his hand in defeat.

“I've... I've never done this before, John.”

He slides his palm over in John's grip so that their fingers intertwine. The doctor's heart kicks an irregular beat. Sherlock continues, looking away.

“As you can observe for yourself, I've already made poor decisions regarding the two of us. I leap ahead twenty paces and leave you behind. I'm so used to being alone that I do not regard speaking to another for consultation, especially when the matter at hand so intimately involves said person.”

As Sherlock speaks, his face begins to flush, his breathing picking up while his mouth twists to a wry unhappiness. He stops looking away and braves John's shocked gaze.

“I need us to be together. I have never wanted anything more in my short life.”

He swallows and the pain in his voice wrecks John.

“But look what I do, John – observe and understand. I've been so _angry_ at you these long months, hiding away from you because I felt you were at fault, that you had made the wrong decision for the final time in driving me away. This wouldn't be the last time that I hurt you or hurt myself in pursuit of you. I've been solitary my whole life because that is how I function best.”

John grips his hand tighter and leans forward to stare hard at Sherlock's face, his voice a harsh whisper.

“That is because you haven't tried, Sherlock. You haven't even given us a chance before you're giving up. Do you think I know nothing of pain? My entire adult life has been pain and what I feel with you – even when you muck things right up – that is not irreversible pain. It's growth. That's the bond between us stretching so it comes together more whole than before.”

He dares to lay his palm on Sherlock's neck, the pulse he finds there rabbiting frantically. The world dissolves away around him and he searches the other man's face, allowing his secret heart to reveal itself once more, his quietest, fiercest wishes.

“We can grow together. Let us both learn how to love properly, with our whole hearts. I give mine to you with no regard for my own safety because I _trust_ you, Sherlock. You will ruin nothing between us, though I know there will be times of strife. Heaven knows living with you will have it's consequences.”

He gives a weak laugh and delights in the shadow of mirth on Sherlock's face, the cautious hope. John scoots a fraction closer on the bench, unable to stop, fingers tangling in the curls on the back of Sherlock's long neck.

“I want us to live together, take breakfast, read the morning papers. I want to listen to your brilliant mind unravel all the problems of the world and I want to be there to put you back together again. I want to take you to my bed, learn every part of you, understand you down to your bare bones. I want us to grow old together, to lie next to you until I cannot rise anymore. There is nothing of you that I do not want. Do you understand me?”

They both gasp for air at the same instant, a single hot tear streaking down Sherlock's face, betraying the well of emotion John's words stirred in him. He feels the sting of tears in his own eyes and cannot help leaning forward, Sherlock meeting him halfway as their mouths press together.

No fireworks light up, no explosions shake the earth's foundations, yet this gentle crisis strikes him at his core. John feels humbled by the sweet connection, the hot breath when Sherlock yields his lips to open, the soft press of his nose against John's cheek. Their hands stay twined between them, both of them gripping hard enough to turn their knuckles white. Sherlock brings up his other hand to paw at John's spring coat, pulling him closer.

His disbelief at this actually happening begins to fade and he searches his mind for the fear, the repulsion that came so naturally before and finds no trace of it. Only soaring happiness sweeps through him and he transmutes it to this kiss, sliding his hand to Sherlock's jaw so that he might sweep his thumb over the flush on his lovely cheekbones.

They move in perfect compliment, Sherlock's tongue sliding between his lips comfortably, as though John's mouth were his own. In truth, John feels like every part of him already belongs to the man before him and he claims Sherlock's mouth just the same, a pleased, possessive thrill running along his spine, one of owning and being owned.

When they part, it's as one. They lean back on the bench as they breathe, John's thumb rubbing gentle circles into Sherlock's knuckles. He releases a breathless laugh and rolls his head to the back of the bench, staring at the trees and blue sky above. Before he knows it, the laugh grows and grows, filling his chest with merriment and joy.

oOo

Sherlock watches in dazed amusement as John's breast heaves with laughter. The doctor doubles over and no seed of doubt sprouts in Sherlock's heart. He hears the genuine relief and happiness behind the noise, his own chuckle growing to full-bellied laughter in no time at all.

They were both such idiots.

He was willing to risk everything for this. To have such a splendid creature as John Watson beside him, whole and happy, he would go to the ends of the earth. He stops worrying about examining the hows and whys, though he was sure his brain would circle back to the base questions again. But not now, not when he was free to clamber over John, settle in his lap and sprinkle kisses all over his face.

They keep laughing through these bursts of affection, a peck on John's brow, a kiss on the end of his nose. He finally presses their lips together for a final time, both of them unable to cease the slow stretch of their smiles. Giddy with their future, Sherlock slips lower in John's lap, pressing his face to his neck and breathing in, closing his eyes.

True happiness spreads through him and he lets the moment settle around them. John's heart beats again his own, his fingers in Sherlock's hair, his lips against his temple. The day drifts into quiet afternoon around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed here at the end of things. I've been writing this fic a long time & it's been with me through many personal ups & downs. It's meant a lot to me to sit down & write about these adorable jerks & have others enjoy it with me. So thanks for reading, sticking around, & leaving such wonderful comments that I want to roll around like a happy puppy. I'm really, really grateful. Thank you. 
> 
> You'll notice the chapter count went up because there's an epilogue being beta'd AT THIS MOMENT by my darling duck [Chelsea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66), who has wrangled me & these last chapters into tip-top shape despite all my whining & hand-wringing. There's the real worry that the epilogue is *too sweet*, so you'll have that to look forward to. Definitely not even a hint of angst- it's just schmoopy sex and cute domesticity because these guys earned it. 
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://www.unknownsister.tumblr.com). I've got about five WIPs in progress, but I've learned my lesson with the length of this one & I'll be posted those works as they're fully finished. Updates on that stuff soon! 
> 
> Anyway! Did I say thank you? (thanks)


	17. Chapter 17

_September, 1924 – 17 months later_

 

John scrapes the mud from his boots just inside the entrance of 221B and taps his umbrella against the door frame, droplets of water clinging to his work clothes. A brown bag from the grocers balances on one arm as he struggles to toe off his dirty shoes, the paper wet from the torrential downpour outside. A soft click of a door opening sounds to his right and the bag is being taken from his arms as Mrs. Hudson tuts at him. She drops his hat on the rack next to the front door.

“You're going to catch your death of cold out there, John. Doctors should know better.”

He quirks a smile that makes him look like the mischievous boy he surely was. She pinches him for his cheekiness and takes the groceries into her apartment. She speaks over her shoulder as he trails after her into the kitchen.

“There was no need for you to pick these things up, dear. I told you Evelyn was going to stop by the grocer's tomorrow on her way in.”

John shrugs easily and slips into her kitchen chair, the quaint room warm and close after the fall chill outside. He looks around at the doilies and tea towels and marvels at how well Mrs. Hudson fits into Baker Street. Molly relinquished her title and Hooper House went to her cousin, under some law John didn't understand. While she'd been sad to give up her childhood home, it meant finding a new home with Greg in London.

Most of the staff had stayed on, but Mrs. Hudson decided to retire officially. Unofficially, she was the housekeeper of 221 Baker Street. After John sold his own house, Evelyn came by three days a week to help with the cooking and cleaning as Mrs. Hudson wasn't as young as she used to be. Besides that, John liked Evelyn and was happy to keep her around after so many years.

At first, John thought it might be a bit awkward to move in and have Mrs. Hudson directly below him and Sherlock during their more amorous hours. John was quieter by nature, but, as much as he tried to shut him up, Sherlock howled in very unsubtle ways. After one particularly loud bout of sex in the afternoon, John had laced up his boots to head out and fetch some food for their empty kitchen. His attempt to sneak past 221A failed and guilt was replaced with concern as Mrs. Hudson’s radio was dialed loud enough to hear in the foyer. After knocking and getting no answer, John let himself in to find her knitting in her living room with bright, fluffy earmuffs on.

She had looked up at his entrance, turned down the radio and slipped off the muffs. Her cheerful ‘Oh, are you finished?’ had been all it took for John to turn red, promise to keep things down, and bolt, much to Sherlock’s amusement when he returned.

He blinks back to the present when a cup of tea materializes in front of him, Mrs. Hudson still chattering in the background as she unpacks groceries. John takes a sip and tries to listen, interjecting when he senses a free moment, a fond smile on his face.

“It was no trouble to pick them up, Mrs. Hudson.”

“No trouble! Not with all the cats and dogs pouring from the sky?”

He stands, coming to take a final parcel from the bag. He sets down his tea on the countertop, unwrapping it. A pastel box of Turkish delight sits in his hand, a pocket of sugared air wafting upwards when he opens the lid. Mrs. Hudson claps her hands in glee.

“Oh, John! They're lovely! But I thought you didn't like sweets?”

His nose squinches as he pulls a disgusted face, carefully wrapping the box again.

“Especially not these. I'm not the one with a sweet tooth around here.”

As if on cue, a loud thump sounds from the floor above them, followed by a scraping noise that can't be good for the floors. They both look up with fond smiles and John tucks the small package into his arm. He gives her a smart salute before turning to the door.

“I best be getting up there. I've got a special delivery to make. Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

She swats him with a towel as he exits, mumbling about her incorrigible boys. He reminds himself to get her some better earmuffs for Christmas and sign them from Sherlock.

John makes his way up the seventeen steps with a loud tread, deliberately squeaking on one of the stairs. Sherlock already knows he's home, but _John_ knows that Sherlock likes to present himself as dramatically as possible when he's in a strop, as he was certain to be tonight.

As sure as John imagined it, when he opens the door to their flat, Sherlock is posed in a drape across his chair, resolutely not looking at the doctor as he closes the door behind him.

“Evening, Sherlock.”

He heads to the kitchen first, not disturbed by the absent greeting. He eats a quick sandwich with cold cuts from their new, bacteria free fridge (there had been strong words about what went where in this one). Washing his hands in the sink, he weathers a few minutes of stormy silence and smiles to himself. He picks up the parcel from the kitchen table as he dries off his hands and heads straight for Sherlock's chair. After bending to press a quick kiss into messy curls, he drops into his own chair, holding the package between them.

Sherlock rolls his head to the side with a frown to rival five-year-olds everywhere.

“Just because you bought me sweets doesn't mean I forgive you.”

He sits up straight to take the box anyway, weighing the contents before pulling the strings off carelessly. He examines the wrapper on both sides and his eyebrows rise, shooting John a surprised look before he quickly schools it back to practiced disdain.

“These are from the opposite side of town.”

John makes a show of poking the fire, peeking with an amused look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“Um, yes. That confectioner you liked next to the carpenter's shop where we solved that nasty burglary case.”

“A considerable distance in this weather. In the opposite direction of your walk home from work.”

“Well, I knew it was a special occasion today.”

“And you left me this morning anyway.”

Sherlock snipes and his face goes sour, but he's picking open the box with long fingers and plucking a sweet from the wax paper. The only indication of his pleasure is a slight fluttering of his lashes, but John knows exactly what to look for and doesn't hide his wide grin.

Ramping up the childishness, Sherlock stuffs two more in his mouth before tucking his feet in his chair and facing sideways, crossing his arms in a huff and leaving John to tend the fire. They play this game all the time and John always wins, so he stands with good humor, stretching his arms far above his head, grinning as Sherlock tries not to look at his torso.

He takes out his pocket watch – now much scuffed and abused from his adventures with the detective – and clicks his tongue.

“I'm exhausted. I think I'll retire early. Don't stay up too late.”

The brush of his hand over Sherlock's silk clad shoulder isn't necessarily shrugged off, but the affection is not returned as he heads towards the loo, unbuttoning his cuffs.

During cases, Sherlock was too preoccupied for them to have sex at all. He might indulge in a quick cuddle on the couch, but that was because John arranged himself around him, the detective lost in thought while John positioned his limbs into an embrace. John usually fell asleep like this and would wake with a blanket over him to see Sherlock standing at the window, pale features made waxen by the moonlight.

The post-case celebratory sex day was now something of a tradition and John slightly regretted missing this one today. They just finished a particularly long and wearying case. But after his play with candy and his terrible attempts at being coy, John knew Sherlock would come after him with a lustful vengeance, likely to involve some rough manhandling just so the detective could let out his frustrations. John pretended not to like it, but he enjoyed it much more than he let on, which obviously, Sherlock was always able to tell.

Sherlock was in a mood today for slightly justified reasons, but he upsets John more than his fair share. At times, he drives John to near violence with his insolence and his disregard for even basic human decencies. There had been many afternoons where John had to simply leave the flat, take a walk, get away before he lost his temper completely. But in their bedroom, Sherlock changed the most. He was fine-tuned to every nuance of John's body, sometime to things John wasn't aware of himself. It flattered him and he tried to show the same devotion to Sherlock, for his heart was always full of him, no matter what way his temper swayed on a certain day.

He makes it all the way through his nightly ablutions, switches off the light, and tucks himself into their shared bed without a peep from Sherlock. The silence lasts about ten minutes before the bedroom door clicks open and a dark figure stalks to the end of the bed. He yanks the sheets off and pounces like a beast, setting John off on a pitch of giggles he would never admit in the daylight. Sherlock immediately presses his nose to John's neck, pushing behind his ear.

“Ack! Cold! Cold nose! Stop it!”

John shoves at his shoulders half-heartedly, trying to stifle his laughter as Sherlock balances on all fours above him. His robe hangs open, creating a curtain around their torsos. John mock-admonishes him while running a hand down Sherlock's bare chest.

“Did you even touch the fire while I was gone today? You're freezing.”

Sherlock says nothing, leaning back down to lick his way towards John's jaw, pressing his lips against his pulse. His petulant silence tells John everything he needs to know and he blows out a long-suffering sigh.

“Your non-answer means Mrs. Hudson came in sometime during the day to stir it, so it wasn't dead by the time I got home. But otherwise – no.”

Sherlock leans back to see John's face, delighted as always with the smallest of deductions on John's part. The doctor rolls his eyes – Sherlock makes it seem like connecting even the simplest of dots is a major feat for John's inferior intellect. He retaliates by reaching for Sherlock's pajama bottoms. His hands end up pinned by his head, a growling man in his face. Light from the street barely reflects in Sherlock's eyes as he stares John down.

“I'm still cross with you.”

“You knew I had to work today.”

“It's the day after a case.”

“Yes, but I took off so many days during the case. Even I was starting to feel a bit guilty.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Mycroft arranged things with your practice. You don't need to be there unless you want to. You were well in your rights to take our mandatory celebratory day.”

John flexes his fingers, testing the grip of Sherlock's strength. The hold is tight but John could easily break it. He grins with all his teeth as Sherlock's frown falters. Annoyed, the detective redoubles his efforts of teaching John a lesson and pushes back to lie down on top of him, their bodies pressing together chest to calf.

The thin layer of cloth does little to hide what's between them, and John shivers with this familiar knowledge. He kicks at Sherlock's ankle.

“At least pull the sheets back up here, you dramatic git. I walked through the wind and weather to get you sweets. I'm cold.”

He relents, releasing John slowly and dragging his body down his length before slipping off the bed to grab their duvet from the floor. He drapes the cloth around his shoulders before spreading it out like wings. He flops back on the bed, knocking the breath out of the doctor.

John smacks him and laughs some more as Sherlock envelopes them in their comforter and his limbs. They roll to the side, face to face. Wrapped in lanky detective, John sighs.

“I appear to be trapped.”

Sherlock's answer is to pull him even closer, their mouths a breath apart. John smells the sugar from earlier and licks his lips. The only time he likes Turkish delights is after Sherlock's eaten them and he can taste it on his tongue, sweeter than anything made in a kitchen. The anticipation of his own dessert rattles his heart as his blood travels southward.

He leans forward to take Sherlock's mouth, but is rebuffed by fingers landing on his lips.

“Next time. No working. Stay home.”

John nips at the offending fingers and Sherlock pulls them back.

“Just because you want to rut like _bunnies_ after a case well-solved, doesn't mean the population of London stops getting the sniffles.”

A lovely blush spreads down Sherlock's cheeks and throat, barely visible in the dim light from their window. After all they've done together, Sherlock still gets embarrassed. John's grin turns wicked.

“Unless you'd like me to tell them _why_ I couldn't come in? 'Oh yes, terribly sorry, I've got to get home so my flatmate can bugger me through the mattress. I'm afraid I won't be able to walk straight tomorrow so I might call out for the week as well...”

The kiss swoops in as expected from Sherlock and John laughs into his mouth, delighted to be shut up. He shifts and slides forward a bare inch, rearranging their limbs until Sherlock's thigh is trapped between his own. The effects of his words are obvious in Sherlock's arousal, butting up against his thigh as he moves his hips in tiny controlled circles.

Sometimes he marvels at himself in these moments, completely engulfed in another man's arms and happily so. He makes himself take stock of his mood in these times, the overwhelming contentment he feels in the love from this unusual man, how good it feels to love him in return. John knows what it's like to be unloved, unhappy, unmoored. He's a changed man from the shadow of a wretch he was before and it makes him all the more joyful to know how much he's transformed.

It's not just him – Sherlock's changed too. He seems to shift with every passing day since they reconciled in the gardens at his ancestral home. He smiles more, allows John's touch and touches him more in return. They've become properly domesticated since they settled on living in 221B months and months ago. The life that John saw for himself before he went to war is not so much different than what he has now. A warm hearth, a steady job, excitement and a loving partner, though perhaps the sex of his partner would be a shock to know back then.

As it stands, he currently very much enjoys the sex of Sherlock, reaching behind the wriggling detective and grabbing a handful of his backside, grinding him further into John's embrace. He enjoys the warmth of their cocoon while he can, as he knows Sherlock will get too hot any minute now and kick the sheets off impatiently.

He anticipates the move and rolls them, landing on his back with Sherlock on top of him, their mouths detaching for a brief moment before Sherlock's devouring him again. The sheets hit the floor as Sherlock sprawls and settles his hips against John, moving in languid, rolling thrusts. His hands trap John's next to his head again and they stay there, their kisses growing more heated.

This was something new for him as well – letting Sherlock take control of their bedroom proclivities when the mood struck him. Not that they were restricted to the bedroom. 221B had been christened many times over in all sorts of places John never thought he would have sex (he had to scrub the kitchen table several times before he agreed to eat there again). In those first few months, Sherlock was always on the receiving end of their pleasure, though John was an eager study in learning all the techniques to make him squirm. When John had finally worked up the nerve to let Sherlock have him, he melted in the gentle touches and liquid slowness of his lover. In the end, the extreme caution became too much for him and they ended up having some of their most passionate sex yet.

The memory sends a frisson through him and he bucks up against narrow hips, gripping soft silk pajamas and pulling down. Sherlock kicks them off with his heel and strips John of his own scant clothing, his nose mashed uncomfortably beside John's as he tries to look down, not break the kiss, and get John bare at the same time.

John smiles and moves his hands from the pillow to help him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and relieving both their noses. Sherlock turns and catches his mouth and the chaste peck returns to their previous pace.

Impatient, he flips John onto his stomach, sliding a firm hand down his spine, like calming a wild colt. John unfolds beneath the contact, arching his back in aching pleasure as Sherlock reaches his bottom and presses his blood-warm cock against his cheeks. They stay in this position for a moment, Sherlock scattering kisses across John's shoulder blades, his scar, the nape of his neck. He feels Sherlock stretching, reaching for the lubrication in John's nightstand. He balances with one large hand on John's hip, the touch hot and reassuring.

John gives into temptation and pushes backwards, rubbing against Sherlock and smiling at his grunt of distraction. He gets a pop on his flank for the trouble, but his smile remains as Sherlock returns, smoothing his hands up John's sides to grab his wrists again. His voice in John's ear shoots straight to his trapped cock and he resists the whine in his throat.

“Keep your hands here.”

He swallows and obliges. Sherlock sets the tube beside them on the bed and bends back to his task, rubbing his very slight stubble against the soft skin of John's thighs as he slides between them. He lays light kisses in the wake of his scratching and John tenses under every one, his stomach tightening with every rush of hot air Sherlock blows against sensitive flesh. His body shivers without his permission in anticipation of what's coming next.

He remembers the first time Sherlock kissed him in such an intimate place. Three months ago, John had finally heard a response back from a reputable publisher about the notebooks he kept on Sherlock's cases. They had been heavily edited before being sent in (though Sherlock had read the originals and kissed him senseless afterward) and now they were going into publication. Sherlock had studied the happy lines on John's face, the pride bursting from every seam of his being. Without a word, he had taken John to this very bed and focused on his pleasure alone, kissing him from the crown of his head to the arches of his feet. He had never felt so loved in all his life and had trusted Sherlock when he asked for permission to split John's thighs and sink his tongue into him.

Now he _craved_ it, an act so depraved that he never knew it existed until Sherlock's brilliance had shown him the light. He clenches his hands in the sheets as Sherlock parts him, licking and sucking kisses against tight flesh until his body relents. John is a shuddering wreck, his body shaking apart as Sherlock flips him over and slides one slick finger inside. He wilts a bit at the sudden intrusion, but Sherlock takes him in his mouth, sucking him back to full hardness. Two fingers find their way inside him and he rides them, breathless and lost to all by Sherlock's skillful thrusts.

Sherlock pulls off his cock with a wet 'pop' when John brushes the curls back from Sherlock’s sweaty brow, his glare all the warning John needs to put his hands back where they belong. Three fingers slip from his body and he aches all over for the emptiness they leave behind. He closes his eyes, pressing his head against his pillow and exposing his neck, a calculated move. As predicted, Sherlock cannot resist and pauses in slicking up his own cock to kiss and bite at John's neck, spreading his heat and weight over John's frame. They'll both admire the marks there tomorrow.

Sherlock reaches for his pillow, propping John's hips to the right height and using his palms to spread John's legs wide. They splay to either side of Sherlock's hips and the move never fails to make him flush, imagining himself akin to a harlot. Even in the faint light, he can see Sherlock's cheshire grin. They both know exactly what John is thinking and just how much he likes it. John knocks his heel against Sherlock's backside in retaliation. The detective chuckles and presses for another kiss, one hand between them to guide him to the right position.

Even going slowly, this act still punches the breath out of John. He doesn't clench down like he used to, but Sherlock still has to take his time, sometimes just laying his forehead against John's while he wills his body to relax. John had never guessed Sherlock would be this way in bed and he is grateful every time they lie together.  

Sherlock gives a careful push of his hips, his open mouth panting against John's own, thighs trembling in restraint. John's brow creases and Sherlock kisses the corner of his mouth.

_All right?_

He doesn't speak but John nods and nudges his own hips up to signal his readiness. They'll have to work up to the pace they both really want, but for now John relishes the slow drag of Sherlock's cock, the incredible sense of peace spreading like warm honey through his chest. His very soul sighs when Sherlock wraps a hand around his prick, fingers slipping with John's coming release and more lubrication. They find a rhythm that sets their hearts quickening, Sherlock's pelvis pressing all the way to John's backside as they pick up the speed.

He's breathing hard and his hands fly up to Sherlock's neck, sliding over his shoulders until he's pulling him closer. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, kissing his temple and puffing hot breaths against John's cheek. He locks his ankles around Sherlock's pistoning hips, completely filled and loved in this moment. He wants it to last forever, basking in happiness he never thought could be for him. He pulls Sherlock's ear close to his mouth, gasping _I love you_ between every strained breath. He needs Sherlock to know. It's only in these times does Sherlock take what he says and absorbs it the most, their affection most clear when they're both laid bare.

He manages one more admission of love before his breath stills in his lungs. Sherlock plunges forward as far as he can, circling his hips and cock deep within him, gripping John's hips so hard he'll have more marks to admire in the morning light. He comes with a broken cry, his release spreading between them as Sherlock goes back to pumping with abandon, seeking his own relief. He finds it soon after and John loves when he gets to see this, lazy with endorphins and so happy, watching Sherlock's beautiful face twist in pleasure, their eyes never leaving each other.

He reaches up with both hands to cup his lover's face when Sherlock pulls his cock free, sticky residue sliding to John's thighs that he'll have to clean up shortly. Sherlock gets the message and lowers himself carefully for kitten licks and lazy brushes of their mouths, not having the energy for proper kisses. One long pale arm gropes off the side of the bed for the lost sheets but John pinches his side playfully.

“No, no. Go get a flannel for me. Then we can find the sheets.”

Sherlock is often non-verbal after sex and all John gets is a grumble in response as the detective drags himself out of the bed, completely nude and comfortable as if he didn't look like a bloody Greek statue come to life to walk around their flat. John admires the view as he stumbles into the washroom, rearranging their pillows and getting ready for him to return.

Sherlock does, kneeling between John's legs with all the patience of a saint, his gentle movements in cleaning him up betraying his earlier grunting and moaning about having to leave their warm bed. He places a final kiss to John's hip before dropping the flannel and pulling the sheets up. Like before, he simply wraps the sheet and himself around the doctor, positioning them both for maximum comfort.

It took John a long time to accept himself in this state. While he had plenty of playful romps in his teenage years, sex with Mary had been reduced to a duty and all joy for the act had been drained out of him. Sherlock worked against those memories every day, and reduced him to a red-faced, panting _mess_ on every occasion. Only recently had he been coaxed to being vocal with his pleasure. It helped that he could do the same to the detective, stunned at how beautiful the man could be on the verge of climax. John would run his fingers over his lover's stomach through his release, awed that he had done this to such a creature. Vulnerability ran both ways with them and John learned to let things go that would have held him back before.

John used to feel lost in these moments, after the needs of his body were fulfilled, but his mind was still running like a motor. Sherlock had taken to stroking him, long stretches along his back, sometimes from his sides down to his thighs, bringing him a peace John never knew was possible. No matter what went on during the day, these were the moments that reassured him of Sherlock's love for him.

They put themselves in danger constantly. John kept his portable kit at home now to stitch them both back together after their many close calls. But they helped people, and it helped him leave the past behind. John had found a creative outlet in writing that satisfied him in ways he never thought of. They knew each other so well now that they'd developed a silent language that drove Mycroft up the wall. He found he had not only a house, but a _home_ , with people he loved inside that he looked forward to seeing every day. Every once in a while, he would pinch himself while he was making tea or listening to the radio to make sure he wasn't just dreaming in the trenches. His sense of fulfillment and satisfaction was unreal some days.

Sherlock would take that opportunity to sneak up behind him and wrap him in his arms before storming off to the next task, a moment of calm in the eye of the storm. His surprise kisses were few and far between but they made John smile for the rest of the day. He felt Sherlock's arms tighten on him and he interrupted his contented thoughts, grumbling into John's hair.

“As much as I like to know you're happy, you're thinking loud enough to wake the street. Go to sleep, John.”

He listens to the hum of the radiator and the splash of rain on the windows for a moment, letting everything wash over him one last time. With a deep breath, he shifts closer, placing a final smiling kiss against the underside of Sherlock's chin before settling into sleep.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very, very end. I promise. 
> 
> Thanks ever so much to [Chelsea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66) because there aren't enough adjectives in the world for how great I think she is. Thanks for your beta-ing, kicking my ass & phone calls to get this done. 
> 
> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://unknownsister.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Thank you!


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